The Baby Catalyst
by ficscribbler
Summary: Will the arrival of a baby at the tree house be the catalyst to Roxton learning the rest of Marguerite's secrets?


Summary: _Will the arrival of a baby at the tree house be the catalyst to Roxton learning the rest of Marguerite's secrets?_

Disclaimer: _The Lost World does not belong to me. *sigh* It belongs to Coote/Hayes, The Over TheHill Gang, New Line Television, et al, …_

Author Note: _This is the first Lost World story I finished and posted (May '02,_ _approx_ _29,400 words__), originally _s_et after "Secrets" but before I'd seen the last eight episodes of the third season; I started rewriting this in 2008 to better reflect the revelations and relationship developments during the last eight episodes, and expanded it just for fun. (Completed July '10, approx 97,600 words)_

_xxxxx_

Marguerite tossed the book aside with an irritated sigh.

"How am I supposed to concentrate with that constant racket?" she muttered. Admitting to herself that she couldn't stand the nerve-wracking din any longer, she rose from her reclining position on her bed.

The baby's piercing cries had continued without respite throughout the previous night, and from the sound of things, it wasn't likely to end any time soon. There had been brief moments of blessed silence when the exhausted and miserable child dozed off, but it hadn't lasted more than a few minutes at a time before it started all over again. If someone didn't pacify the infant, it would mean a second straight sleepless night.

The slim brunette stalked across her bedroom toward the doorway, reflecting sourly that this was a perfect example of why she'd warned them not to keep the child. _I knew it was going to mean trouble from the first moment we heard it blubbering near those raptors._

Roxton's rifle bullet had unerringly found its mark, killing the raptor that had been clawing at the rocky crevice in an attempt to reach the child whose hiccupping sobs they could all hear. Malone, Challenger, and Marguerite's rifles had barked almost in unison, taking out the other two raptors nearby, where they were feasting on what must have been the child's parents. Veronica had dashed forward, dropped to her knees, reached between the stony projections, and scooped up the infant. She'd taken one look into the big blue eyes, smoothed the short silky blonde curls, and instantly adored the fair-skinned child. It had taken only a few minutes of fussing over the orphan for the men to fall just as deeply under the spell of the sweet-looking baby's now-syrupy gurgles.

From the few remnants left by the ravenous carnivores, it appeared the parents had been nomadic, carrying all their belongings with them. Roxton loped off to do a quick scout of the couple's back trail, hoping to find their traveling companions, while the other men gathered the scattered belongings and attended to the remains of the couple. Veronica cooed over the baby, and Marguerite had stood guard. At that point they'd fully expected to return the child to her people. But when Roxton returned, he'd reported that there was no sign of a group; the couple had been on their own, apparently without a definite destination, since their immediate trail over the last mile had indicated that they were merely wandering. Challenger had speculated that the doomed couple must have been searching for someplace to put down roots, to build a new home. Ned had suggested trying to follow their trail to find a possible home village, but they knew all of the white civilizations within a week's march, and this family's clothing and supplies didn't match any group the explorers knew. That meant they'd have to plan a time-consuming expedition to search further afield, on the slight chance that they might find the child's extended family. If they were nomads, as Challenger deduced from their belongings…

"It could take months to find her people, if we ever do. Let's keep her," Veronica had suggested with suppressed excitement, tenderly cuddling the orphaned baby.

Ned, of course, had taken one look at Veronica's sparkling eyes and had whole-heartedly supported her suggestion that they should "adopt" the infant. And John had been won over the second those tiny fingers had wrapped around his index finger. The scientist knew better than to object too strenuously; of the other adults, only he and Summerlee had previously witnessed their hostess's quick commitment and attachment to other jungle orphans, back when they'd found Tommy three years ago. He raised the possibility of the baby's people appearing, of course, but he already knew that Veronica would give the child back to her relatives if they came looking. Besides, as she'd soon discovered, even George Edward Challenger's usually science-absorbed heart had been shanghaied by the way the baby's alert gaze followed his voice and clung to his face as if utterly fascinated with his every syllable each time he contributed an opinion to their discussion about what to do with the infant.

Marguerite alone had stood back, not participating in the conversation until, to her dismay, the others actually accepted Veronica's eager suggestion that they adopt the baby instead of bothering with a long search. Startled and not a little taken aback by the men's agreement – she'd thought at least George would balk at their hostess's ludicrous plan – she'd scoffed, "Don't be absurd! We're not set up to care for it, and there are better options available. You're ignoring the obvious solution. Children orphaned by the jungle are taken in by Assai's people all the time."

The others hadn't noticed her lack of enchantment with the child until she'd finally spoken up. Her friends had been startled when she went on to point out quite reasonably that the child was too young for table food, and that neither she nor Veronica would be able to provide it with proper nourishment, while someone in the Zanga village could undoubtedly handle it. She'd bluntly reminded them that the baby's immediate needs would be best provided for by a family in the village, not by a group of unprepared and inexperienced explorers.

But despite her perfectly logical objections, the other tree house residents had voted to keep the "living treasure" – as Roxton called the infant with a look of reproach at Marguerite – as their own.

Marguerite hadn't bothered to reason any further with them that day, or indeed, any of the days since. She was well aware that her housemates thought she'd eventually come around to their way of thinking, just as she had no doubt that time would prove to them that her points were valid. She also understood that they knew her well enough to know that her resistance would only toughen if they tried to force the issue, so they hadn't openly pushed for the prickly woman's capitulation. Although they'd each subtly tried to persuade her to accept the baby at different times, she had adamantly avoided even touching the child, and continued to hold herself aloof throughout the ensuing days. In spite of their mingled incredulity, disappointment, and growing disapproval, she'd flatly refused to be drawn into caring for the infant.

The strangest reaction was John's; he was actually the first to appear to accept to her resistance. She'd expected him to be the one person who would insist on discussing this. She'd been ready to explain, to defend her rationale, but naturally the one time she wanted to talk openly to him, he showed no inclination to ask questions. Instead, he seemed almost… resigned, as if he really didn't expect her to change her mind. There'd been plenty of time to think about his odd inaction and what it meant for their relationship, and Marguerite didn't like what she'd begun to suspect. She also didn't like what was happening to tree house lifestyle.

As she'd warned, adopting the child had changed the routines and relationship dynamics of their group. Now everything revolved around the baby and its needs. Other than the minimum work needed to maintain the tree house's security and supplies, everyone else's time and energies were absorbed by caring for the child. The others had entered enthusiastically into the tasks of finding suitable food and clothing, and they all seemed to enjoy learning to care for her. During the last two weeks nearly every minute of every day had been centered on tending the child - even Challenger had participated enough that he'd become proficient at changing diapers. The four of them had put in long days and late nights to assemble baby furniture, baby toys, baby clothes, and they'd taken turns caring for the baby during the nights. They'd planned the schedule with an eye to making sure no one person ended up exhausted.

Only Marguerite stubbornly remained uninvolved, distancing herself both physically and emotionally from the child they'd named Maria after an evening's lively debate. Despite the mild coaxing of her housemates, her disapproval of the baby's presence had held firm through the entire two weeks: she flatly refused to take a turn at minding Maria during the night, or to participate in feeding, bathing, changing, holding or even playing with the child.

In fact, she'd avoided the tree house as much as possible, rising before sunrise to complete whatever chores Veronica had assigned, then vanishing to the jungle for the rest of the day. Roxton, although he scolded her for going out alone, didn't go with her. He claimed his presence was needed at the tree house until the routine was well-established. Other than his disapproving warnings, he made absolutely no attempt to prevent her from leaving. His unusual restraint puzzled her, and added to the increasing distance between them.

The others reacted as she'd expected, concocting amateur schemes to keep her home so they could win her over, but Marguerite ignored every ploy and left each morning as soon as she could. She only came back to their lofty home in time to be safely indoors before sunset, at which time she would drop off anything she'd brought back for the larder – fruit or greens she'd gathered, or small game she'd shot – and grab a handful of fruit or nuts, anything portable, before she retreated to her room, shunning any attempt by the others to engage her in conversation. She spent her evenings secluded, immersed in studying one of Challenger or Summerlee's scientific texts or one of Veronica's parents' many journals, doing her best to tune out any sounds related to the child and its care, until everyone went to sleep.

Or at least that's what she'd been doing until these last two nights. The baby's fretful crying had made it impossible for anyone in the tree house to concentrate on anything at all, least of all get any rest. The child had been wailing when Marguerite left yesterday morning, and had still been at it when she returned to their treetop home yesterday in the rosy-hued sunset. She'd grimly endured the continual caterwauling through the entire night before being able to make her escape with sunrise this morning. Apparently, from what she could overhear of the others' discussion tonight, the child had stopped its fussing only for brief periods throughout the day, and there was no sign that the baby's unhappiness might ease off anytime soon.

Despite the satisfaction of knowing this situation proved the truth of what she had insisted to the others - that the child didn't belong here at the tree house - she couldn't help being concerned for her friends… and even for the child. Marguerite had fully expected one of the others to figure out what was wrong long before now. When they hadn't taken care of the problem by the time she returned home last night, she'd suspected they were deliberately allowing the situation to go on in an attempt to draw her in. But she didn't believe any of the four could stand to watch – and listen! – to the baby's fretting this long in an attempt to manipulate her. Based on the conversations she'd overheard and what she'd seen when she'd breezed off the lift tonight, she had no choice but to consider the possibility that they really were completely clueless.

Although she wanted nothing to do with caring for it, she couldn't stand by and hear the little thing suffering any longer. _Besides_, she reasoned to herself now, _if it's bothering me when I've been away during the daylight hours of the past two days, how must the others feel? They've been with the child the entire time while it's been howling like this. How is it possible that none of them have realized the obvious? How can they be missing it? Can they really be so tired already, after only two weeks of looking after it, that not even George realizes what's happening? This is flat out ridiculous! _There didn't seem to be any choice: Marguerite would simply have to do something about it herself if there was to be any relief for any of them tonight.

So she braced herself for the task ahead, strode through her bedroom doorway and padded, barefoot, up the stairs to the main floor of the jungle tree house that had been her home for the last four years. Marguerite ignored Veronica as the blonde paced back and forth bouncing the baby in a vain effort to comfort it. She passed by the three men slouched at the table – so exhausted and distraught that she would have been triumphantly amused but for the fact that this was too dire a situation for humor – and continued straight into the kitchen. Opening the "cooler" Challenger had created to refrigerate their perishable foods, she took out a bottle of wine fermented from jungle berries. Its quality was poor compared against its European cousin, but it was perfect for her current purposes.

The petite brunette selected a glass from the nearby shelf and poured several ounces of the dark red fluid into it.

From his seat behind her, Roxton snapped irritably, "How can you be so bloody cold-hearted?"

Startled by the unwarranted attack, she replaced the bottle in the cooler and closed the door before she turned to face him. "I beg your pardon?" One fine eyebrow arched in question as she met his angry dark green eyes. _I know we need to have this out sooner or later, but in front of the others? What have I done - or failed to do - that's causing this public censure? Isn't it enough for him that I came to help?_ Then her eyes widened as she noted in surprise that Roxton wasn't the only one expressing annoyance with her; all three of the men were glaring at her. _What's going on here?_

Ned Malone, usually the most even-tempered of the men, burst out, "Honestly, Marguerite, we all knew you were self-centered, but this last two weeks you've proven yourself to be lower than the lowest! She's just a helpless baby! And you walk around like she doesn't even exist! How can you calmly help yourself to a glass of wine as if nothing is wrong? How can you not care about Maria's misery?"

Marguerite's gray-green eyes narrowed as she met Ned's accusing gaze. Her lips parted to reply, but Challenger cut her off, his voice scathing as he answered the young reporter with a sneer of derision at the woman holding the glass of wine. "Don't waste your breath, Malone. Clearly she's doing what she always does; putting herself first!"

Her silver-grey eyes flashed with growing indignation, but before she could respond to the additional charges from the redheaded scientist, the hunter spoke up again. With a curl to his lip and disdain filling his angry countenance as he looked her over from head to toe, he growled, "I know we've joked about your lack of maternal instincts in the past, but I never seriously believed it until now! God help any child _you_ ever give birth to, Miss Krux, because it certainly won't have a decent mother!"

Marguerite's chin snapped up as if he'd physically struck her, and she paled.

The men glowered at her, apparently unified in their scathing opinion of her. Veronica's narrowed glare of disgust added to their condemnation of Marguerite, though the blonde continued to pace back and forth in the open area beyond the dining table, still bouncing the screaming baby in her futile attempt to soothe the child.

After a shocked nanosecond, the heiress deliberately inhaled a long, slow breath. _Pull yourself together, Marguerite_, her mind instructed, and long habit stiffened her posture. Her eyes glittered icily at them as she panned across their hostile faces and replied haughtily, frostily, "Well, apparently I still know more than any of _you_ do!" She stalked over to Veronica and thrust the glass of wine into the younger woman's startled hold, spilling a little over the edge of the glass due to the violence of her gesture.

Meeting Veronica's questioning eyes, the older woman snapped, "Rub a fingertip of this onto the brat's gums. It's teething and this will numb the pain." She was already brushing past the blonde as she finished speaking, headed for the stairs to return to her room. _Get away now! Refuge!_

"How do you know?"

At Veronica's question, half suspicion, half doubt, Marguerite paused and looked over her shoulder at her hostess, then beyond her at the three equally distrustful men_. Tough it out! Mustn't let them see that they got to you!_ With a toss of her curls, she turned gracefully again to face them and declared flatly, "Only a complete fool could listen to the four of you up here endlessly bemoaning your efforts to calm the brat, and not know what was wrong." With satisfaction, she noted that her deliberately insulting barb had caused them to hesitate as they each wondered what they'd missed.

Poised near the top of the stairs, she summed up the circumstances, and emphasized each point by straightening an additional finger of her left hand while she crisply counted off each detail. "You've noticed that she's drooling, has a bit of a runny nose, only takes a little of her bottle before she starts to cry again, and has been running a slight fever on and off." She closed her fist and started a second list, once more enumerating each point with a straightened finger. "You've bathed her, changed her, fed her, held her, and played with her, all to no effect." She paused, shook her head as she met each pair of eyes in turn – _they still don't get it!_ – waved her hand in a disparaging gesture, and concluded in exasperation, "_Obviously_ she has at least one tooth coming in and her gums are sensitive." She saw light dawn in George's face and mocked, "Exactly, Challenger! You're too worn out to think clearly, or you'd have seen it yourself. It's just as I warned you: that brat belongs with Assai's people, with a real family, not here with _inexperienced_ caretakers. Any parent at the Zanga village could have told you ages ago what the problem was! Now _numb the gums with the wine_ so the brat will shut up and I can get some sleep!"

Having delivered her explanation and her orders, she spun on her heel and regally descended the stairs, her shoulders and back ramrod straight and her head high. She kept up a crisp pace as she traversed the hall back to her bedroom, aware of that she would be visible if anyone chose to move to the top of the stairway to watch her. As she swept through the doorway she closed the curtain-door with a well-practiced movement, producing a sharp snap of fabric that was fully intended to be heard on the floor above, even through Maria's fussing.

Only once she was safely hidden in her room did Marguerite allow her inner quaking to manifest itself in outward shaking. _Lord, I didn't see that coming tonight. But I should have. I knew as soon as we disagreed about keeping the child that things would change between us. Now that he's face-to-face with this side of me, it doesn't look like it's gone over too well. Seems we've finally found the limit to what he'll accept about me. _Sinking down to the floor, back pressed against the nearest wall, she wrapped her arms around herself and devoted her concentration to denying the urge to cry. When she had no choice but to accept that tears were inevitable, she muffled her sobs by burying her head against her knees.

She couldn't tell what hurt most, the fact that the others had so wholly embraced the baby girl's presence in the tree house without any apparent concern about her objections, or the harsh evaluation of her character delivered so bluntly by her friends… especially Lord Roxton. _It had to happen; I knew all along that this could never last, that any future with John was only an illusion. I just wasn't expecting to lose him this soon – or to lose the others at the same time. _

Back upstairs, Maria's howling stopped abruptly, but Marguerite Krux found no comfort in having been right.

xxxxx

Veronica returned from tucking Maria into the pint-sized bed the British nobleman had constructed for her, climbing the stairs with dragging, weary footsteps wholly unlike her usual graceful and energetic bounce. "She's sound asleep!" she reported with a weary sigh, joining the men slouched at the table, setting down the wine glass Marguerite had so abruptly handed her half an hour ago.

Challenger eyed the now-near-empty glass in chagrin. "Teething. I can't believe it didn't occur to me!"

"Well, we've all been rather deprived of sleep. None of us are thinking clearly," Ned kindly excused their resident genius for his lapse. He had pen and paper before him, as usual, but hadn't written a word, unable to summon the determination needed to pick up the pen. "The question is," he frowned, trying to wrap his head around a concept shadowing the edge of his awareness, something that felt as if it should be important if he could only get past the obvious question he'd been mulling. "How did someone like Marguerite know? Like Roxton said, she hasn't got a maternal bone in her body!"

"Apparently she has at least one," Veronica pointed out reasonably, resting one elbow on the table and propping her head up with her hand. "She certainly knew what to do, didn't she?" She covered a wide yawn with her free hand. "Sorry."

Although he nodded automatically like the other men, Roxton scowled toward the stairs. "That's what makes this so disgusting! Marguerite knew what to do, all right, but she only did something about it when it suited her, not to meet Maria's needs or ours! She could have told us what was wrong hours ago – probably even yesterday! But she didn't bother. She let Maria suffer until _she_ wanted to get some sleep!" He would never have believed that the slim brunette could still be so callous if he hadn't witnessed it himself over the last fortnight. In fact, since he'd learned that his lady was Parsifal, one of the Great War's most effective but least known heroes, he'd persuaded himself that she'd never truly been coldhearted at all… but he'd obviously deluded himself.

He'd been hoping against hope that the way she'd been avoiding them all was nothing more than Marguerite seizing Maria's presence as a reason to distance herself even further from him and from their relationship, which she'd been doing little by little ever since their escape from that cave. But no one could have stood by and watched – and listened! – to Maria's fretting for this long without being as self-serving, as ruthless, as Marguerite had appeared to be back when he'd first met her. Miserable as the idea made him, what other explanation could there be for such chilling behavior? Before she'd come up those steps tonight, he'd told himself his irritation with her was irrational, that it made no difference whether she helped with Maria or not. She hadn't done anything to cause Maria's discomfort, and what good would her presence do when the other four adults had been helpless? But he'd been wrong; she'd not only known what the problem was, but how to solve it. Now it turned out his ire was fully justified. How could she have done it?

Unconsciously echoing Roxton's unhappy thoughts, George sighed and spoke up. "Well, given that this is Marguerite we're talking about, we may never grasp her motivations. We could analyze the possibilities indefinitely. Instead, I suggest that we take advantage of the peace while we're able, and get some sleep ourselves." Challenger rose stiffly from the table, wincing as he realized anew how deeply weary he was. "Who knows how long it will be before Maria wakes again – or perhaps it would be more appropriately phrased, how _short_ a time it may be until she wakes. Come along, everyone; lights out."

Roxton, Malone, and Veronica nodded tiredly, and joined the eldest member of their party in dousing the lanterns before heading downstairs to bed. None of them looked toward Marguerite's room. Feet dragging, heads down, they separated with whispered _good night_'s and _sleep well_'s. After a bit of rustling as the men changed to their night clothes, the lights in their bedrooms went out one by one, and silence reigned in the dark tree house.

At last; blessed tranquility. It hadn't been this quiet in days.

It was quiet enough for Lord John Roxton, the hunter, to hear something from the room next to his own. The soft sound nagged at him as he sprawled across his rush-stuffed mattress, preventing him from the relief of longed-for slumber, until his conscious mind engaged itself in figuring out what was niggling at his subconscious awareness. He finally sat up in his bed, braced his elbows on his drawn up knees and cocked his head as he listened.

_It's not a normal jungle sound. What the devil is it? I've heard it before… But where do I remember it from? Blast! Way too tired! Can't think clearly!_ The low, keening hum gave him uncomfortable shivers, just as it had when he'd previously heard it. Then it came to him. _That's it! How could I have forgotten?_ He'd first heard the eerie sound the day after he'd moved into the room next to Marguerite's, when he'd given up his former bedroom to be turned into Maria's nursery.

The chief feature of his original chamber had been its central location in the tree house, which had allowed the expedition's protector to react speedily to potential danger from any direction. That same location, as Maria's nursery, served to permit any of the adults to reach the baby's room in the shortest possible time. Roxton's "new" quarters had previously belonged to Arthur Summerlee, and had been unoccupied ever since the old gentleman's untimely separation from them. Until now they'd left the room untouched, but they'd agreed that Arthur would approve of their reasons for finally packing up his personal belongings so that John could use the chamber instead.

Roxton liked the new placement of his bedroom, so much nearer to Marguerite's boudoir. The tedium of moving his gear into another room had been relieved by musing with anticipation on the possible future benefits of being right next door to the object of his heart's desire.

His lips curved upward as he recalled his expectation of very sweet dreams in this closer proximity to the love of his life, and perhaps even a better opportunity to deepen their relationship once Marguerite got over being annoyed about Maria. Of course, they also still needed to work their way past the foot-dragging she naturally begun after their escape from the tomb. But that would come with time and patience. Why, whole realms of possibilities opened up with only a few feet separating their beds, instead of a winding hallway floored with creaking planks!

Then he frowned as he remembered his disappointment and frustration the first night he'd slept just the other side of the wall from his lady. _Instead of falling asleep to my happy thoughts about Marguerite being right in the next room, I was kept awake by this same bloody, haunting sound. When it didn't stop after a reasonable amount of time, I tracked it straight to Marguerite's bedroom. _His attempt at a stealthy entrance to trace and eliminate the cause of the noise had failed completely; his approach had startled the skittish heiress into sitting up abruptly in her bed. Although her sudden movement had left her face in the shadows beyond the moonlight that streamed through her window, he'd had no trouble discerning her annoyance at his intrusion.

Some other time he might have tried a bit of romancing, but he'd been all too aware that his lady was deeply miffed with each of her housemates over choosing to bring the baby home. Moreover, she was particularly peeved with Roxton, because he'd sided with the others instead of with her. He'd avoided an outright argument with her about it up to that point, hoping to just wait her out. In the mood she was in, there was bound to be a confrontation no matter what his reason for intruding into her room, and he hadn't wanted to risk waking everyone in the house with a ruckus when they'd just gotten Maria to sleep. So he'd wisely refrained from wasting time telling her how beautiful she was in the moonlight, and simply explained the reason for his uninvited entry.

Marguerite had shrugged indifferently and told him that it was only the wind through her window. Since the sound had disappeared by then, John had simply nodded and gone back to his new room, making a mental note to himself to keep an ear open for a recurrence. Fixing whatever had caused the problem might be a good peace-making gesture to perform.

Of course that was before it occurred to him that her aversion to the baby was merely a convenient reason to withdraw from him. He'd been watching her since they'd escaped from the cave where she'd finally confessed that she loved him, had braced himself for a return to at least a modicum of her previous resistance. After all, she'd only said the words because they both thought they were about to die. Up until they'd been trapped, Marguerite had actually insisted that he _couldn't_ love her. Once the crisis in the cavern had passed, he knew she'd have second thoughts… he'd even wondered if she'd only said it for his sake, some sort of gift to him before their lives ended. She certainly hadn't said those three words since they'd climbed from the rubble, and she hadn't wanted to repeat their intimacy. She'd given him perfectly logical reasons, though, and she'd been willing enough to indulge in some discreet kissing and cuddling, so he'd set himself to wait as she worked through the implications of this new stage in their relationship. Traditionally, that meant enduring a period of regression into her original attitudes toward him and the others.

But her current behavior… he'd never imagined she'd revert so completely to the way she'd been when he first met her. The way she'd acted these last couple weeks had him completely flummoxed.

Well, he wasn't going to figure it out tonight. He needed sleep too badly to work through a complex problem like Marguerite. If only that freakish noise would cease! This was the first time it had recurred since that first night they'd brought Maria home. _I'd nearly forgotten all about it. Funny how it's almost moaning; sounds nearly human._ _But it's only the wind._ _And I'm in no mood to go in there right now and deal with her after her callousness - she'd probably gloat about being right about Maria and we'd only end up arguing again about keeping the baby._ Now that he'd identified the eerie whisper of sound, Roxton forced himself to tune it out – which wasn't as difficult as he'd feared, since he was too exhausted to focus on anything for long – and closed his eyes. _Tomorrow, after I've rested, I'll find some time to check the construction of Marguerite's window. With any luck, I can spot and repair the structural defect that's causing the problem. _

_Not that I particularly care whether she's bothered by any sound the wind might occasionally make in her room_, he told himself sternly as he rolled over, turning his broad back to the wall between them. _She doesn't deserve my consideration right now, not after the heartless way she let Maria suffer so unnecessarily, but I'll fix it for my own sake._ It might not represent danger, but the sound still made him uncomfortable. Eliminating the bothersome noise would be satisfying.

xxxxx

The sun was already high in the sky when he woke the next day. He blinked at the light streaming in the window, a frown creasing his brow. It was much later than he normally rose. In fact, by the looks of it, it must be mid or late morning! And he couldn't hear anything that indicated that the others were up and about, either. _Veronica must've allowed everyone to sleep in today. Wise move. The complete lack of sleep over the past couple days, coming after the disrupted nights during the last two weeks, has left us all so tired that I was beginning to worry about our ability to focus and remain alert. Such a worn-down condition is too dangerous; lessens our readiness for survival in the jungle._

Hmm. He stretched lazily, content. _It's nice of Veronica to do this for us, very characteristic of her. Despite being jungle-born and raised, she's always thoughtful of others … unlike a certain impossible, self-centered mercenary brunette!_

His brow darkened at the thought of the expedition's financier, and John bounded out of bed, needing a physical release for his inner turmoil. He splashed his face with water from his washstand bowl and continued to fume about Marguerite as he deftly performed his ablutions. With more energy than necessary, he whisked up a foamy mixture of soap in his shaving cup. _Why does she always,_ _ALWAYS, have to wait until it suits her own wishes to do something nice for others? She's the most irritating, frustrating, sharp-tongued woman I've ever met!_ Beautiful and ladylike as she could appear, she was also chillingly capable of being devious, underhanded, and flat out deadly. Marguerite Krux had been a troubling phenomenon since the moment she'd stunned the four men with the news that her offer to fund the Challenger Expedition was conditional on her joining them on the journey. Before that, she'd only been a momentary amusement, just another foolish elderly widow throwing away her funds on a fanciful whim. When she walked into Challenger's study that day, she'd turned his whole world upside down. _I've had barely a moment's peace since my life became tangled with hers. I don't know which was worse, suspecting she couldn't be trusted, or letting her trick me into actually trusting her! _John winced as he nicked himself with the first touch of the blade to his lathered jaw. _Blast! __If I don't settle down and ease the force with which I'm shaving, I'll cut my own throat._

The physical self-restraint he summoned to shave safely carried over to his thoughts. As angry as he was with the irritating Miss Krux, his innate honesty wouldn't let him get away with the one-sided condemnation that had been raging in his mind. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that he wasn't being entirely fair to her at the moment. _I can't let the fact that I'm totally irked with her make me forget all that I've learned in the last four years, and how far our relationship has progressed._ He, better than most people, knew that there was much more to Marguerite than the deliberately uncaring façade that she'd adopted again since the day they'd brought Maria home.

As he finished shaving and dried his face, he reminded himself that even before he'd fallen head over heels in love with her he'd have admitted, albeit a trifle reluctantly if it was one of her bad days, that she was handy to have around. _She's incredibly skilled with languages, deadly accurate with a gun, not bad with a knife … and then there's her frightening skill with a whip, too._ Stepping into his trousers and shrugging into his shirt, he ruefully reflected that she could be worth her weight in gold – when it suited her. He found himself grinning at the memory of the way she'd used that whip on Tribune, and then again against the horsemen that time they'd been searching for a water source during the drought. _Why'd she stop carrying that?_ His smile dimmed as he pinpointed the disappearance of her whip. _Questions. She stowed it away after the rest of us expressed curiosity about how and why and when she became so proficient with a whip. _

With renewed ire, he recalled that – typically! – Marguerite never had explained where she'd gained such expertise. _Another of her bloody secrets, no doubt! Marguerite and her secrets! _Of course, now that he'd discovered her wartime identity, he had to admit that she had valid reasons for at least some of her secrets. Learning that she'd been a spy – and not just an ordinary spy, or a double agent, but a _triple_ agent - actually explained a lot about her. For instance, the way she was always on the lookout for an angle she could use to her advantage must be an instinct honed to perfection in her war work as Parsifal. It was understandable that she couldn't simply divorce herself from habits that had enabled her to survive – and since that same occasionally-unscrupulous behavior had helped them all to survive in this Lost World, it shouldn't be held against her, should it? He tugged on his boots, grimacing as he recalled the way the wily woman could be counted on to get the best possible agreement in any necessary negotiations with other Plateau dwellers. _She's cunning, all right. She's always managed to work a deal that ends up benefiting the group. In the beginning I was positive that the vigor with which she negotiated was because anything good for the rest of us was also good for her. It took a long time to figure out that a tender heart was hidden behind those bloody defenses of hers. It took even longer to earn her trust, and to learn some of the secrets she's kept from all of us_.

Over the last year her sharp-tongued, cynical persona had slipped more and more frequently, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the woman he'd long suspected she truly was. _In such moments, she can be utterly charming._ He reflected on the tenderness, warmth and humor unveiled within the beautiful, unpredictable brunette. _Marguerite can be as much a delight to the soul as she is to the eye, warm and funny and bright and wonderful to be with, when she's in a good mood. She's such an incredible woman -_

Catching sight of himself in the small mirror on his shelf, he grunted as he noticed that he'd begun to smile again. He stiffened, forcibly reminding himself of the way she'd been acting during the last two weeks, culminating in last night's self-serving display. _I can't be swayed by my feelings._ _Her recent behavior leaves me no choice but to question my interpretation of the FACTS_, he reminded himself sternly. _Which is the real Marguerite, the cold-hearted mercenary or the compassionate and insightful lady? She's too good at reinventing herself for me to ignore the possibility that I've been taken in. She's a crafty former spy. What if she deliberately created this image of being a woman who has a hidden, tender side? What if she set out to play the part of a lady in need of a knight in shining armor? What if she laid a snare for me, behaved in a manner she knew I'd be attracted to, tricked me into believing she's someone to whom I'd be willing to commit my heart? I've seen her change her personalities to suit her purposes and attain her goals many other times since we met. What if it's all been a charade on her part? What if she's fooled me all along?_ _What if everything, including the way she finally 'admitted' she loved me when we were trapped in that cave, was just another of her bloody pretences, designed to reach some private goal I've not yet discovered? _

He felt sick to his stomach at allowing himself to even contemplate this. 'It can't be true!' he wanted to shout. But the awful truth was… it wasn't out of the question. _I have to face the possibility that, given the facts I know about Marguerite – knowing that she's Parsifal and remembering what I know of Parsifal's activities during the Great War – it's entirely possible that the woman I've fallen in love with is only a fabrication._

Facts. He had to stick with facts. He couldn't rely on his feelings, and he couldn't make assumptions based on surface conduct. She was far too good at manipulating his emotions, too expert at twisting situations to her benefit. The bottom line was that these past two weeks, Marguerite had behaved like the woman he'd originally known, the hard-edged mercenary-hearted heiress to a reportedly tidy fortune who had joined the Challenger Expedition for personal financial gain. Throughout most of their first two to two-and-a-half years on the Plateau, she'd shown an insatiable greed for gems and precious metals, and a genuine knack for locating them. All traces of her apparent indolence vanished the second she caught a hint of possible riches. Regardless of dirt, insects, time or effort required, she worked – hard, grimy, physical work! – to gather the best quality and the greatest quantity of precious gems or minerals that the other expedition members would give her time for in the midst of their ongoing struggle to survive in the Lost World.

Marguerite's companions had quickly learned to be wary of getting sucked into her efforts at amassing a fortune to take home. If she had to con someone, or just plain outright cheat, and if she thought she could pull it off without being held accountable, Marguerite did it. He was sure each of the others had suspected that the amoral brunette might go so far as to betray them all the moment she could do so without any loss of profit to herself. Roxton himself had warned the others more than once that if circumstances and opportunity presented themselves, she'd either double-cross or abandon them. Once her attempted sale of Veronica to Assai's father had confirmed her callousness, he'd kept a stern eye on her, ready to foil potential plots and to force her to toe the line.

Despite accepting the reality of these oft-despicable traits, the nobleman had also believed there was something more to her, something beneath her prickly, cold outer shell, something that would be worth uncovering. There'd been plenty of glimpses of a better nature in her behavior as they lived in such close quarters for an extended period of time. As he'd observed her, he'd gradually concluded that the hidden side of her was who she really was, and her more unpleasant characteristics were deliberately wielded as a shield to protect herself. He'd committed quite a bit of time to drawing Marguerite out, increasingly impressed with the true quality of the woman he'd discovered, one well worth his admiration and devotion.

And his belief in that possibility appeared to have been rewarded over the last year as he'd witnessed an incredible blossoming; she'd finally become genuinely attached to her housemates, letting her cynicism slip away and tentatively opening up to them. _Or at least, that's how it seemed to me. I hoped it was the start to building a lasting relationship with Marguerite … but since Maria's arrival, all that progress has been lost. She's no different now than she was during those first months we were here, focused almost solely on herself. Since she's made the time each day to bring back supplies, I've let her go her way this past fortnight, hoping she'd come around, and hoping she wasn't really distancing herself again. But if the changes in her behavior through the last year and a half were all an act, if she's been playing some game I can't fathom, then she's not going to 'come around' about Maria. This woman who refused to take care of a helpless baby is who she really is – the person she was when we first met, not the woman I thought I loved._

Heartsick, he realized that if these suspicions were correct, he'd have to go back to being her keeper instead of courting her. The task would fall to him and him alone, since neither of the other two men had ever had any success at modifying her behavior. _Only Arthur had as much success as me at affecting her willfulness… though the old boy never needed to scold or browbeat her. No, that temper of hers always gentled of its own accord in the Summerlee's presence. _The kind-hearted botanist had been the only one to consistently spark any tenderness and consideration from Marguerite back then.

Of course, there was one other person who'd succeeded in making the feisty brunette alter her behavior, at least on some occasions. Lord John Roxton snapped his braces into place as he left his room, his mood improving as his thoughts returned to their young hostess. Veronica, using methods uniquely her own, had turned out to be surprisingly adept at keeping their wayward companion in line. She had virtually cured Marguerite of her habit of sleeping half the day away, by the simple expedient of pouring a bucket of ice cold water over the sleeping woman when she didn't get up on time. John chuckled softly to himself as he crossed the hall toward the stairs to the upper level. _The only thing that brought Marguerite out of her bedroom earlier than Veronica with a bucket in hand those first few months – actually, that whole first year or so! – was a preset plan for the day that included treasure hunting._

His smile faded at the reminder of her single-minded pursuit of wealth. He'd met other mercenary women, of course, even before he'd become sole heir to the Roxton estates and the family title after his elder brother's death. He'd been popular with the ladies before William's death, but afterwards women had come out of the woodwork. The predatory nature of these females, with their blatant and not-so-blatant strategies designed to trap him into marriage, had been utterly appalling. Fortunately for the Roxton lineage, thanks to his not inconsiderable prior experience with the fairer sex John hadn't been some callow youth who could be taken in by the machinations of the fortune hunters he'd met at every turn. No, he'd seen through every deceptive woman who'd plied her wiles on him, avoided every snare, and outmaneuvered every scheming woman that had crossed his path.

But Marguerite, she was the best. _She's so incredibly subtle! She can appear so innocent, or be so blatantly sensual – whichever suits her purpose of the moment. The only thing one can count on with her is that whatever she's doing will work out to her advantage somehow. _He'd almost forgotten that fact over the last year or so. _Maybe it was wishful thinking that convinced me there's an altruistic, loving side to Marguerite that we've only seen more recently as she learned to trust us. Maybe she's merely been amusing herself at our expense. Maybe she's showing her true colors again now that Maria is here. What other explanation could there be for her callous treatment of an innocent baby? The bottom line_, he concluded grimly as he marched up the steps, _is that I never should have lowered my guard with her._ Marguerite Krux was too good at deception to ever be accept her at face value.

Veronica Layton, on the other hand, was just the opposite. What you saw was exactly what she was; no playacting, no secret agendas, no toying with others for her own purposes – well, except that one time when she'd baited Marguerite with that phony treasure map… but that had been an exception.

Born to scientist parents who had come here with a large expedition, raised with the wonders and mysteries of this prehistoric plateau all around her, she had grown to be wily and skilled at survival, much like Marguerite. _The difference is that Veronica has none of Marguerite's hardness and deceitfulness._ _She may have lived on her own for eleven years after her parents vanished, with only primitive natives around, but she has the inborn courtesy and compassion that are supposed to characterize civilized people_, _as evidenced by the way she welcomed us into her home when we were stranded here._

Veronica was a constant delight to them all – _well, except perhaps to Marguerite, although lately the two of them seemed almost sisterly, like it is between Veronica and me_. _Or at least, that's how it looked at the time._ With what was happening now, he couldn't help but wonder if that was merely another of the brunette's games. _Thankfully, there's no need for such doubts about Veronica's feelings; she's a genuine friend even to Marguerite, who's undoubtedly her most tiresome guest. I can't let my love for Marguerite blind me to what might be happening here; I owe it to the others to protect them… even from one of our own._

Reaching the upper level of the tree house, Roxton paused and smiled at the sight that met his swift scan of the area. This was a good example of their hostess's thoughtfulness and courtesy, the sort of thing that would never be the result if it involved Marguerite instead of Veronica. Not only had the efficient blonde let the men sleep in this morning and taken care to keep the baby quiet, but it looked like she'd also taken it on her sun-bronzed shoulders to do the most immediate chores herself.

The confusion of yesterday's clutter, which they'd left without tidying last night in their exhaustion, had been cleared. The great room had been straightened up, all books, hats, weapons, and other items back in their proper places. He could smell the aroma of roasted coffee beans, and could see the teapot sitting ready. Firewood had been brought up and laid in the big open oven, Summerlee's herb and spice plants were all watered, the floor was swept, clean dishes were set out ready for a meal, bowls of freshly-washed fruit were ready on the table…

Veronica had been busy, indeed, allowing the men to rest after the difficulties they'd all faced in adding Maria to their little family. The baby had been waking with the sunrise every day, and Veronica must have awakened at her first cries, while the men had slept on. Impressed, Roxton nodded and smiled his approval. _I wouldn't have thought that even Veronica could accomplish all this in one morning and also watch Maria, especially if the teething is still making her miserable. Haven't heard her crying at all, though, so maybe the worst is over? How long does it take babies to teeth?_

His smile faded yet again as the thought of Maria's teething brought Marguerite back to mind. _I honestly believed Marguerite was changing. She's trusted us more, been less testy, opened up more to us than ever before – or so it seemed. I believed she had no choice but to concede that we might be the closest to family that she ever finds, after the loss of the Ouroboros. Of course, I thought I'd seen gradual improvement long before Callum grabbed the artifact and vanished. The moments when she's been almost publicly affectionate with each of us have come more and more frequently. She still complains, of course, but she's pulled her own weight without serious protest for quite a few months now, and I thought she was – well, not that she's said as much, but the way that she's acted towards all of us, I thought she'd come to genuinely care about each of us. That can't all have been an act, can it? Even Parsifal couldn't be that good, could she?_

Her unexpected objections to keeping the baby had caught each of her housemates off guard and left them bewildered. And her subsequent absolute refusal to help with Maria, along with her reversion to aloof coolness, had taken them all aback. None of them could fathom it. They'd discussed it at considerable length more than once over the past fortnight.

Knowing how Marguerite disliked change, and aware that she generally avoided interaction with any youngsters they happened across, Challenger had counseled giving her time to become accustomed to the idea of such a major addition to their home. Maria was an adorable baby; surely Marguerite would come to love her, too. At least, that was what Challenger had thought, and what the others had hoped.

_But for her to understand why Maria was in pain, yet not say anything about it for two days … That just isn't acceptable! I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes! Why can't she be more like Veronica? _John continued to brood over the differences between the two women as he prepared himself a cup of tea, selected a piece of fruit from the bowl, and munched on it with his teacup in hand. _Yes, there's plenty Marguerite could learn from Veronica, if she wanted to. Where are Veronica and Maria, anyway? Not indoors, or I'd have seen or heard them by now._

He strolled around the balcony in idle curiosity, scanning the compound and the jungle floor for any sign of Veronica and the baby. He finally spotted movement on the far side of the tree house, below Challenger's lab and the storage rooms. _Of course! It makes sense that she'd be over here; naturally Veronica would keep Maria away from the area beneath our bedrooms. That way there's less chance that any noise might disturb those of us who are still resting._

Down in the clearing he could see baby Maria contentedly crawling around on the grass, playing with the toys the three men had created for her. John leaned on the balcony railing and smiled as the sound of her contented baby gurgling drifted upwards. She was wearing one of the play tunics Veronica had painstakingly sewn for her – something that would have taken Marguerite only a fraction of the time it had cost Veronica, if she'd only bothered to contribute! – and a little sun bonnet that covered her blonde curls and protected her fair face from the strong tropic sunshine. A few of her colorful toys were scattered around her.

Roxton tensed, his teacup rattling on its saucer as he saw the baby crawl too close to the electric fence for his liking. He was about to call out a warning to Veronica when Maria's progress was abruptly halted; although her little arms and legs pumped energetically as she tried to crawl toward the shining wires of the fence, she wasn't getting any closer. Maria rolled onto her back, and kicked her feet in the air, and he blinked as he saw what had stopped her. The anxious watcher chuckled and relaxed, easing his grip on both the balcony rail and his teacup handle. _Leave it to Veronica to find such a simple solution! _

A rope had been fashioned into a halter around Maria's torso. The simple harness was tethered out of sight to something beneath the balcony, probably the tree trunk or one of its massive roots. _What a good way to allow her to play while keeping her safe from the fence and out of the garden beds! Why didn't we think of it before?_

He indulged in another soothing sip of his tea and smiled as he watched Maria play with her feet a moment longer before she rolled back over and crawled out of his line of vision, still content. It was good to see the child acting more like her normal cheerful self again after her unhappy disposition of the last two days.

When his cup was empty, John straightened and went back into the kitchen to rinse the cup. _I really should get the other men up and moving_, he decided reluctantly. _We've all had sufficient sleep to restore our alertness for now._ He crossed to the stairs with a light step. _Perhaps the three of us could offer to watch Maria while Veronica takes a nap this afternoon, since she's been so generous to us this morning. Of course, looking after Maria these last two weeks has left us all behind on things we need or want to do, and it'll probably take more than one night's sleep to get us back up to full energy – and more than one day to catch up on the things we've set aside – but between us we should be able to keep an eye on the baby and still accomplish -_

He stopped abruptly as he reached the bottom of the steps and saw what he hadn't noticed until now: the curtain over Veronica's doorway was still fastened closed, and so were Malone's and Challenger's. Only three doorways were open, curtains waving gently in the midday breeze. Maria's, his own … and Marguerite's?

_Marguerite_ and the baby?

He dashed down the hall and around the lower level's balcony to the backside of the tree house, and dropped onto his stomach to peer between the thick poles that formed the floor of this level.

It _was _Marguerite down there with the baby!

She was sitting cross-legged on the ground with a small stack of clothing and her sewing basket beside her, quietly doing the mending while she kept an eye on the baby. Marguerite? _Babysitting?_

John Roxton shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. _Yes, it's Marguerite._

Maria crawled closer to the heiress, looked up at her and lifted her tiny hands, gurgling pleasantly. She obviously wanted to be picked up. Roxton held his breath and watched, fingers curving with a white-knuckled grip around the unevenly-spaced flooring.

Marguerite's voice drifted up to her unsuspected audience. "Yes, yes, I know you're adorable," she said with dry amusement. "But you aren't going to twist _me_ around that little pinky of yours, Brat. I know what you're going to put all those gullible grown-ups through, and I don't plan to be manipulated by those big blue eyes or the cute little dimples. Just forget it. You've got enough parents already. You don't need to add me to your collection. Why don't you just go play with the toys?" The heiress extended one booted foot, and sent a brightly painted wooden cylinder rolling past little Maria.

Maria chortled and crawled after it, successfully diverted.

Marguerite continued sewing.

Roxton frowned as the truth hit him squarely between the eyes. _She knows what she's doing!_

Furthermore, there could be no doubt now that it had been _Marguerite_, not Veronica, who had cleaned up and done the chores this morning, letting them all sleep in. John shook his head in bemusement. _Every time I think I know really know something about her…!_

It seemed nearly impossible that Marguerite had any kind of experience in caring for a baby. Even Challenger had noticed that she seemed ill at ease with children. Yet there she was, minding Maria without a trace of anxiousness or uncertainty. And just now she'd said she knew what the adults would go through… Well, combined with the fact that she'd known Maria was teething, it certainly appeared that she had some experience behind her.

_Did we miss something?_ Roxton quickly reviewed the last four years. _No, Marguerite never hovers over the new babies in the Zanga village as Veronica and the Zanga women do. And whenever we've crossed paths with older children, like those youngsters being controlled by fear of the guardian plant, Marguerite always does her utmost to avoid interacting with them. King Gawain and Gideon are the closest to "children" with whom she's willingly interacted in the last couple years, but I wouldn't have said she got on well with either of them, any more so than with younger children. _Apart from the undeniable fact she'd placed her life at risk for each of the young men, she hadn't mothered either of them. She'd been more tolerant than affectionate with both boys.

Of course, there had been that comment she'd made when they'd been teasing one another after Gideon's departure, and he'd said Marguerite hadn't a maternal bone in her body; what was it again that she'd said? "How little you know, Lord Roxton," or something to that effect. He'd thought it part of their joking, but now, considering what she'd accomplished this morning while also tending Maria, he wondered. Surely no novice could have done all of these chores as well as watching Maria?

He knew so little of Marguerite's past, and even less about whether the little tidbits she let slip were accurate or only meant to be misdirection. She'd been adopted, or at least she'd answered his question that time as if his assumption was correct; might she have had younger siblings in her adoptive family? There'd been mention of convent schools, orphanages, and she'd once said something about running from gendarmes with friends on the streets of Paris, which implied that she might have been one of Paris's homeless children. Didn't such children sometimes gang together to look after one another? She'd consistently stated that she hadn't had a happy childhood, but there were only two facts he had no doubt about: she'd once lived near the standing stones of Avebury, and she didn't like to think or talk about her childhood.

Well, whatever the truth might be, somewhere in her murky past, she'd learned how to care for a baby.

Fascinated, the hunter remained sprawled there on the balcony as he peered down through the gaps between the poles. Time and again the brunette casually set a different toy into motion at strategic moments and recaptured the baby's interest in playing. This tactic kept Maria entertained for quite some time without interrupting Marguerite's mending.

John was impressed, but puzzled. Although she handled Maria with complete confidence, he also couldn't help but come to the disappointing conclusion that she was deliberately avoiding physical contact with the baby. _Even though she doesn't know she's being watched, s__he's taking pains not to touch Maria, so apparently her aversion to children is genuine enough_. His lady had worked her way through almost the entire stack of clothes before Maria became fussy enough to refuse to be appeased by Marguerite's skillful ploys. Only when Maria's face screwed into a drooping pout and she began to whine in earnest did Marguerite glance up at the sun and acknowledge, "Oh, all right, Brat. I suppose it must be about time to feed you and numb your gums again."

Shifting to her knees, the brunette carefully gathered her sewing supplies, stored them in the basket, and then stacked her handiwork atop the basket before she swiveled to Maria. As she leaned over the baby and unfastened the harness, Marguerite continued, "You must have worn out all those wonderful new parents of yours even more than I suspected. This is _not_ a good thing, Brat," she said, sighing.

Leaving the rope where it was, she scooped Maria up and rose gracefully to her feet. She settled Maria on her hip with a practiced but natural movement before bending to gather the sewing basket and clothes with her other arm. "They've spent far too many hours of the last two weeks shifting old furniture around and carving toys and building new furniture and creating baby bottles and contriving formula, not to mention the time they've wasted making silly faces and spouting nonsense sounds over you like perfect idiots. The problem with all that is that there's so much more to do," Marguerite frowned. "And that's never going to change. You're going to need more clothes, more food, more care… more, more, more. Survival around here requires the highest state of alertness, and you, Brat, are a time-eating distraction that could easily get us all killed."

_She's echoing my very thoughts about the effect of Maria's presence on our fitness_, Roxton realized, _although I certainly don't agree with her conclusion that Maria is in any way a waste of time. How can Marguerite still be so against the child after spending the morning with her? How can she remain so cynical when she's gazing into the face of such innocence?_

Then John's eyes narrowed as he saw that the baby had gathered a good fist full of the brunette's long, curly tresses while Marguerite had been speaking. _That's not good! _Sure enough, Maria pulled her minder's hair – and not just wee tugs, but good hard yanks. Roxton winced and prepared to make a quick dash to the elevator so he could rescue the infant from the angry explosion sure to result from the child's unintentional but painful abuse.

But the usually-volatile heiress surprised her unseen watcher yet again. Although she grimaced, she didn't lose her temper. She merely knelt and lowered the basket and its stack of clothing back down to the ground so she had both hands free to deal with the baby, who was still jerking playfully on the handful of dark curls. Patiently, and with astonishing gentleness, Marguerite set about extracting her hair from the baby's grip, admonishing without rancor, "Now, now, Brat, none of that. This stuff belongs to me. It's not a toy." It didn't take her long to pry the baby's fingers loose.

With just one hand, never jeopardizing the child still balanced on her hip – to Roxton's relief, since he knew Maria would head straight for the electric fence again if she was back on the ground without that harness to control her – Marguerite pulled her hair back and up, then twisted it into a casual knot to hold it off her shoulders. After a moment to check that the impromptu hairdo wasn't going to tumble back down, she retrieved the basket and its still neatly stacked mending, and straightened up again. Her long hair now safely out of the baby's reach, the slender woman once more headed toward the elevator, talking quietly to Maria.

More and more intrigued, John crawled along the balcony above them, carefully keeping pace so he could continue to listen to her thought-provoking conversation with the baby.

"You'd better settle into a schedule, Brat," she was telling the child in a cooing tone that belied her disapproving words and soothed Maria's fretfulness. "We can't have all those silly grownups burning themselves out taking care of you until all hours. And you needn't go thinking I have any intention of spending more time with you than absolutely necessary to keep those crazy would-be parents of yours safe. Letting them rest today is a one-time occurrence. I won't be bailing them out every time they overdo it. They may have stars in their eyes about you, but I know better. I'm only doing this today on the off chance that it will bring them to their senses. Maybe once it sinks into their thick skulls how dangerously exhausted they've become after having you here for only a couple weeks, they'll finally reconsider this absurd decision to keep you. At the very least, they'll realize how bad off they were and they'll pace themselves better."

Marguerite glanced upwards, and the hunter's heart skipped a beat at the open concern in her unguarded eyes as she continued to speak to the infant. "They were so tired that they couldn't see what was right in front of their noses these past couple days, or you'd have had some relief for those gums of yours long before I finally told them what to do. I've never seen them so completely worn out. Even George wasn't thinking clearly. Maybe after they wake up, they'll start to see the truth in what I told them the day they found you. The question, Brat," she returned her gaze to the child, who looked up at her with wide-eyed attention, "Is whether they'll see sense before you cost them something they can't afford to lose."

The baby, oblivious to the fact that the woman carrying her didn't adore her as every other adult did, suddenly grabbed for the pile of mending. Without faltering, Marguerite deftly shifted her other armload and secured it against her side just beyond the baby's reach. John marveled at the fact that despite Maria's wriggling, there was no danger of the adept woman losing either a single article of clothing or the baby. _This is incredible!_ _Each of us has tried doing chores or lighter tasks around the tree house while carrying Maria, and we all failed miserably. But Marguerite, of all people, is doing it! How does she know how to do this?_

"Oh well, at least if they stay asleep until after you've been fed, changed and put down again, I won't have to dodge any stupid questions." Marguerite stepped onto the elevator cage with the baby and bent gracefully to place the sewing basket and mending at her feet. "So keep it down, okay, Brat?" She straightened again and shook a warning finger in Maria's face, much to Maria's delight. "I'm not in the mood for people prying into my life, and if they find out I'm capable of taking better care of you than they can manage yet, they'll want me to keep doing it. And I am _not_ going to get stuck watching you; you're far too much trouble." She activated the elevator.

Just in time, Roxton remembered the open curtain of his bedroom doorway. He scrambled to his feet. _If that isn't closed before the lift reaches the top, she'll know I'm up and about._ _It'll be the end of any opportunity to observe her; she'd surely dump Maria straight into my arms and disappear as soon as she sees me._ It took a mad effort, but before the elevator reached the tree house threshold, he had scrambled past his doorway, pulling the curtain closed as he went by, and had dashed back up the stairs and across the great room to the upper balcony. He dropped into a crouch in a corner where he could watch Marguerite without being seen, and controlled his breathing with determined concentration. She'd be alert for any sign that someone else had awakened, and if she caught even a whisper of him gasping for breath, the effort he'd just expended would be wasted.

Sure enough, the first thing Marguerite did when she stepped off the elevator was lean over the balcony rail to check on the bedrooms below. Once she saw that the door hangings were all still closed, she sighed. "I'm really not happy about how exhausted you've made them, Brat," she muttered, brow creased with worry. "I expected at least John or Veronica to be awake by now, with the way they're always up with the sun. They really need to get over this fascination with you, Brat, for everyone's sake. Oh well, looks like it's still just the two of us for the time being. Come along," she sighed, and crossed the open great room toward the kitchen.

She paused to set the mending down on the table; it only took a moment to separate a smaller selection that represented the sewing not yet completed and tuck it back into the work basket. She lightly bounced the baby on her hip until she'd finished, murmuring quietly, "There now, Brat, you'll be eating soon enough, once we've taken care of soothing those sore gums of yours and changing you. It only takes a moment to have everything ready, so just hold your horses."

_Economy of movement_, Roxton realized in wonder as he watched her. _Now she's prepared__ to pick up the rest of her sewing again later if she still has to watch over Maria! She's planning ahead. The four of us haven't been able to do that for weeks, even helping one another, but it's like second nature to Marguerite. Amazing!_

With her sewing sorted and ready, the brunette strolled directly to Challenger's cooler in the kitchen area. Taking out one of Maria's bottles, she set it to heat at the fireplace. Then, as she had the previous night, she retrieved a small amount of wine. She tended the baby's teething first, since Maria was beginning to fuss. That settled her right down. Maria, yawning and still pouting, sagged wearily in the circle of Marguerite's arm and restlessly played with the lace visible at the slender woman's bosom. "That's a good brat," the woman cooed gently as she deposited the baby on the counter by the stack of diapers Veronica kept there. "Almost nap time."

John watched keenly as Marguerite quickly changed the diaper, with none of the awkwardness or uncertainty the other explorers had suffered when they began caring for Maria. This unexpected aptitude was yet another confirmation that she _must_ have previous experience caring for an infant. She also changed Maria's tunic, which was now stained by grass and drool, and then cleaned the infant's hands and face. Throughout the process, regardless of the baby's squirming and the constant motion of the tiny arms and legs, Marguerite maintained control of the process with the same emotional detachment she'd exhibited down below.

If he'd seen only her distant facial expression, the hunter might have been fooled into accepting at face value this façade that she didn't care a fig for the child's well being. Even now she was bluntly telling Maria that her presence endangered the safety and efficiency of the tree house family too much to be tolerated. But Marguerite delivered this cold opinion in an undeniably soft tone… and then there was the gentleness of her touch as she prepared the child for her nap …

_So which is it? Is she using that tone of voice and the tender touch only to keep Maria quiet, while her expression reveals how she really feels? Or does she care, but hide it behind that distant and chilly expression, as she's so often done since I've known her? Of course, she doesn't know she's being watched, so why would she bother concealing her genuine feelings? Then again, it may be such an ingrained habit that she does it without thinking about it. So how can I tell whether she cares about Maria or not? _the hunter wondered, stymied. _And what's this?_ She'd finished cleaning and redressing the baby, and now considered the child with an odd look on her face as her voice faded to silence. _Is that wistfulness – longing? – as she's looking down at Maria? _He watched with baited breath for what she might unwittingly reveal next.

But the unguarded moment ended quite abruptly.

Veronica rushed out of her bedroom on the lower level, rather loudly in the otherwise-quiet tree house. Finding Maria's doorway open, she uttered a sharp exclamation; she'd seen much faster than Roxton that Marguerite's was the only other open doorway and instantly reached the same conclusion as the hunter – Marguerite and Maria alone together? Alarmed, the blonde rushed up the stairs. She skidded to a halt as she saw Marguerite with the baby at the kitchen counter.

Roxton was intrigued anew – and amused – by the sudden change that came over the dark-haired beauty the instant she heard Veronica whipping open her cloth doorway on the lower level. In the blink of an eye her wistfulness, as well as that faint glimmer of something else that he couldn't quite define, vanished from Marguerite's lovely face, replaced by an impatient frown. By the time Veronica bounded to the top of the steps, Marguerite had placed half an arm's distance between herself and the baby. John noted, however, that when she turned to see who was coming upstairs, she kept one hand on Maria's stomach to ensure that the baby didn't wriggle off the counter and fall.

Glaring with apparent resentment at the wary younger woman, Marguerite snapped irritably, "Well, it's about time one of you got out of bed! I _told_ you that babies are too much work, didn't I? There's no way you can argue the facts now: you _know_ we're not equipped to look after a baby here! The four of you together can't manage it! And I refuse to be stuck watching this brat whenever you happen to get worn out from spending every waking moment fussing over a baby that shouldn't be here! You were all sleeping so heavily that a whole band of marauders could have swarmed in and murdered the lot of you! The child should be with Assai's people, not here."

Veronica gave the kitchen and great room an all-encompassing scan, more than a little surprised to find everything so neat. Then her eyes settled on the crumpled, dirtied baby tunic beside Maria on the countertop. Grass stains? The jungle-born-and-bred blonde gave Marguerite a suspicious look. "You took her outside?" she asked accusingly, rapidly crossing the remaining distance between them to make sure Maria was all right.

"You think I'm going to stay trapped indoors just for this brat's sake?" the brunette snickered in response. "Of course I took her outside! Don't worry; I kept her in the compound. She was safe enough. She's not made of china, you know."

"Of course not. But the fence -" Veronica took Marguerite's place at the counter and gathered the baby into her arms, hugging her protectively.

Marguerite shrugged indifferently as she stepped away. "Just tie her to the tree," she said flatly, with a hint of a curl to her lip. "That's what I did, and it worked like a charm." She met the blonde's startled gaze with cool defiance.

Roxton almost gave himself away by laughing at the blonde's predictably outraged reaction. Of course, the way the cunning brunette had presented the idea of linking Maria to a tree didn't convey the truth of the concept, but Marguerite didn't interrupt the scolding Veronica was giving her for doing something so – uncaring! Heartless! Cold! Nasty! _Demeaning_!

"Well, then," Marguerite shot back, "Don't leave it up to me to watch the brat! _You_ may be wrapped around that perpetually-grubby little finger, but _I'm_ not such a pushover! Tying her to a tree is exactly the way to keep the Brat out of mischief," she decreed haughtily. She turned and strolled away to descend to her room, casually snagging the sewing basket from the table without altering her pace. "A whole morning wasted," she could be heard bemoaning to herself as she rounded the bend of the descending stairway. "All this mending left to do. Bothersome Brat!"

Veronica glared after the brunette, holding Maria close to herself as she said indignantly, "Tied you to a tree indeed! Don't worry, Maria, my darling. I'll make sure you won't be left with _her_ again!"

The wily former spy's voice floated back from the lower level, "Fine by me! I'll hold you to that!" before her curtained door once again closed with an audible snap of the fabric.

The simplicity and success of Marguerite's maneuver made the watching hunter laugh aloud this time – albeit quietly, lest he alert his lady that he'd been present without her knowledge, thus tipping her off that he might have overheard more. His muffled chortles drew Veronica's eye directly to him as he stepped quietly into view from the balcony.

"Roxton?" She watched his approach with confusion, automatically lowering her own voice in response to his furtive behavior. "What's so funny? Didn't you hear what she said? She tied our baby to a tree – like Maria is some kind of animal!" At his chuckling nod, she snapped, "I can't believe you think it's funny!"

He shook his head, still grinning, and answered softly. "It wasn't what it sounded like, Veronica. Marguerite just manipulated you into doing precisely what she intended you to do. She doesn't want to be asked to watch Maria, so she set it up so that you'd decide never leave Maria with her again. That was her goal when she told you she'd tied Maria to the tree. It was actually a pretty good idea."

"What?" Veronica stared blankly at him.

"I've been up for a while, and I was watching Marguerite with Maria," he explained as he seated himself at the table and chose another piece of fruit from one of the bowls the brunette had set out earlier that morning. He studied the fruit thoughtfully as he added, "She's good with the baby. She knows what she's doing. I think we've missed something here."

Veronica watched, recognizing the intensely reflective expression on his handsome face. If what he said was true … "Marguerite took _good_ care of Maria?" she asked, double-checking that she'd understood him correctly. "_Marguerite?_"

The hunter took a bite of the ripe green fruit, and wiped away the juice that dribbled from a corner of his mouth. He chewed slowly, and swallowed before replying. Pointing the pear-shaped fruit at Maria, he answered, "Look at the facts. Marguerite knew about the teething, knew how to cure Maria's pain, and knew that caring for a baby was going to be overwhelming to us, more than a full time job. She wasn't just mouthing off, Veronica. She really _knew_." He met her puzzled gaze then waved toward the tree house in general. "Consider this morning: she looked after the baby and still managed to do everyone's chores – a feat in itself, without the added responsibility of looking after the baby. All four of us can barely manage to keep up with chores while we look after Maria. But she not only cleaned up, she even finished most of the mending while she was watching Maria." He gestured to the piled clothing sitting at the end of the table. "And I'd be willing to bet the needlework is as fine as usual."

Maria screwed up her face and let out a plaintive cry. Veronica moved to the fireplace and picked up the bottle Marguerite had left there to warm, tested it, and popped the nipple into the baby's waiting mouth, all the while listening alertly. The hunter was clearly on a trail to some truth, working out the sign, and she listened carefully to follow his train of thought as he continued.

"I'm telling you, Veronica, she never even broke a sweat doing it all. She wasn't wondering if she was doing the right things with the baby, there was no hesitation at all; she _knew_ what she was doing." John took another big bite of the fruit, nearly finishing off the whole thing this time, and wiped the juice from his chin again while he chewed slowly. He shook his head as he swallowed, still marveling at what he'd witnessed. "As soon as she heard you coming, _wham_! Complete change of behavior. And with an act that Sarah Bernhardt would've been proud to claim, one simple, misleading statement was all it took to convince you never to trust her to do the job again."

"Sarah who?" Veronica frowned.

Roxton blinked and then grinned ruefully. "I keep forgetting that your knowledge of the world beyond the plateau is limited to what your parents brought along with them and what we've told you," he said by way of apology, then explained briefly about the world-renowned French actress and courtesan known as "the Divine Sarah".

"So you're equating Marguerite's skill at pretension with the best known actress in the world?" asked the blonde with obvious skepticism.

"Absolutely. I've seen Sarah Bernhardt perform, and believe me, wonderful as she is, she'd have a tough time doing any better at fooling you than Marguerite just did."

At Veronica's quirked brow, he explained about the rope harness and the way Marguerite had handled the baby down in the compound. He chuckled in mingled wonder and amusement at her manipulation of the now-blushing Veronica. "Don't feel bad; if I hadn't seen the whole thing for myself, I'd have fallen for it, too," he offered consolingly.

"But why?" Veronica asked, glancing down to make certain Maria was still feeding comfortably. Assured that the baby was fine, she frowned at the handsome hunter as she tried to imagine what reason their housemate could have for hiding a simple fact like her experience with an infant. "Why doesn't she want us to know she can do these things? Why is she back to acting like such a … you know … spoiled … nasty … heartless wretchwho cares for nothing but her own welfare?"

John's grin vanished into a determined frown. "I don't know. But I mean to find out. She's too bloody good at putting up smoke screens. I'm afraid there are a lot more of Marguerite's secrets left than we thought." It was a painful admission from the man who thought he'd finally won her trust. He pushed his own angst aside and concentrated on the more immediate issue. "We have to figure out what's really going on here."

Veronica nodded. "I agree. Marguerite has to learn to tell us the truth."

He couldn't argue with that. "She's claimed before that she keeps her secrets not only for her own sake, but to protect us."

"You're saying she's protecting us? From Maria?" Veronica's lip curled.

He shrugged. "From what I overheard her saying, she genuinely believes that our keeping a baby will be such a drain on our time and energy that it could endanger us. She's hoping that once we realize it's too difficult, we'll give Maria to the Zanga. But based on what I saw this morning, if she'd just pitch in with the rest of us, we could do it." He'd grown too fond of Maria to contemplate letting some stranger raise her now.

Marguerite might not want to have anything to do with the baby, but she obviously wasn't callous enough to allow the child to lack for care, regardless of her recent behavior and what he'd heard her tell the infant this morning. What she'd done today proved that she wouldn't let the rest of the tree house residents down if they genuinely needed help with the child, as they had today in order to get enough rest to continue to survive safely on the plateau.

"So what do we do, confront her and tell her that you saw her this morning? We've never had much luck forcing her to do anything she's set her mind against."

A visible shudder passed through the hunter. "No," he agreed, "We can't come right out and confront her. But there must be a way…" His voice trailed off. John rose absently from the table and wandered out to the balcony, brow creased in thought. He slouched onto the closest chair, broad shoulders hunched under the weight of his deliberations.

Veronica shook her head; she didn't envy him the task of unraveling another of Marguerite's never-ending mysteries. But if anyone could do it, Lord Roxton was the one for the job. The blonde eased the now-empty bottle away from the drowsy infant, set it on the table, and softly cooed a lullaby as she carried her precious armful downstairs to burp her and tuck her into the cradle.

Well aware of her departure, the man on the balcony was thankful for a reprieve from the discussion. Answers were never easy when the questions concerned Marguerite. It had been a while since he'd actively sought to discover hidden agendas behind his lady's words and actions. Things had been going well lately – not counting the incident with the Ouroboros and their spat while trapped in that cave. Of course, he frequently reviewed their interactions in search of clues to what caused her shifting moods. It would have been so much easier for everyone if they could just ask her straight out about things. But neither John nor the others wanted to provoke Marguerite's mercurial temperament, so for the most part everyone adjusted their approach to any given situation or conversation so as to minimize the possible negative responses.

Veronica was right that direct questioning was not likely to help. Confronting Marguerite inevitably led to immediate denials and prevarications, followed by a time period where she shied away from everyone in sulky silence. Genuine insight usually only came from the tidbits she let drop during one of their hair-raising adventures, or from accidentally stumbling across truths as he had today. _Maybe it's time to go back to the basics. I'm a world renowned hunter. I study the habits of my prey, learn their behavior patterns and follow their trails. This is basically the same thing. What I need to do is focus on Marguerite's habits, and I should be able to set a trap to capture her._

He shook his head; that didn't sound quite right. He quickly discarded his hunting terminology._ She's hiding who she is, like Parsifal, and_ w_e need to use the same rules she operates under to plan a way to expose the truth here, a way that leaves her no choice but to be honest with us. She has to learn that she can't keep manipulating us. Friends and family aren't supposed to do that to one another. What I need to do is analyze what happened today, compare it to her usual behavior, and then use the rules and patterns to anticipate what she'll do next. Then we can turn the situation to our advantage._

Today when she'd implied that she had ruthlessly and coldly tied the baby to a tree, Marguerite had tricked Veronica into deciding not to ask her to watch the baby again. _All it took was a few well-chosen words and a certain tone of voice. This isn't the first time s__he's proven herself to be masterful in her use of misdirection. We've all seen it time and again in her strategies against our enemies, and, back in those early days of being stranded here, against us, too. Misdirection is definitely a tool she uses frequently and to good effect. _

He didn't need to think long before recalling multiple examples that proved misdirection was a handy habit in Marguerite's bag of tricks. Roxton grunted in disgust at himself for having forgotten one of the first lessons he'd learned about Marguerite Krux. _I've known for ages that she uses exaggerated behavior to divert others from her genuine feelings, to turn attention from what she's really doing, to conceal her skills – or to dissuade others from confronting her. Learning to see through her bloody smokescreens is how I fell in love with who she really is beneath those annoyingly shifting moods of hers. How did I lose sight of that this past fortnight? Wasn't I even thinking about that very trait earlier today? Good grief! Veronica and I even discussed it openly without thinking twice about what we were doing!_

Veronica appeared beside him and settled a concerned hand on his shoulder. "You alright, Roxton?"

He looked up at her and shook his head. "I'm an idiot."

She grinned at the chagrined expression on his face. "If you say so," she teased.

"No, really," he insisted. "What she did this morning, she's been doing the same thing since the moment we found Maria. Truth be told, she's been doing it since the moment she walked into Challenger's meeting – for all I know, she's been doing it all her life!"

Amusement fading, she quirked a single brow, and he elaborated grimly, "I've known it for ages, and I've called her on it more than a few times over the years. I must still be more exhausted than I realized to have suggested to you that we not confront her directly." Seeing that she still didn't understand, Roxton explained the way that Marguerite used the façade of a volatile temperament combined with misdirection to prevent others from genuinely knowing her.

"What, all the time?" the jungle girl asked doubtfully. "Do you really think that's possible?"

"Yes – or at least, it's possible to do it enough of the time to accomplish her purposes. She was Parsifal, remember? Think about it: she didn't lie to you today, but she presented the truth in a manner calculated to blind you to the greater truth. And she used a tone of voice that implied she'd lose her temper if pushed, so we were both hesitant to pry further." Roxton rose restlessly and paced back and forth along the balcony railing. "I've always known there was more to her than met the eye. In the beginning I sensed only her deception, not the reason behind it. I once told her – the very first day we arrived here, actually – that I should throw her to the wolves for the good of the expedition. She told me to go ahead and try it, that I'd be surprised who got eaten. At the time I considered it to be a defensive reaction to the fact that I was right about her, and for a couple months I interpreted everything she did and said in the worst possible light – right up until I couldn't find a self-serving reason for how she risked her life for Gawain's. I knew then that I'd settled for the easy answer instead of trusting my instinct that there was something deeper going on in that head of hers." He groaned and smacked himself in the forehead. "I can't believe I forgot that there are always layers of meaning to everything Marguerite says and does! She's always kept us from getting too close to the truth about her by never letting us catch a consistent look at who she really is – we've had glimpses, me most often of all, but it's so deeply ingrained in her that it's her first recourse when she perceives any threat. Misdirection and temperamental behavior are her protective camouflage!"

Veronica had never thought it through like that, but she instantly recognized the truth in his analysis, and connected it with their earlier conversation. "Doesn't that bring us back to her keeping secrets, to protect herself and to protect us?" she asked shrewdly.

He nodded as he stared at the verdant jungle that surrounded their arboreal home. He'd never spoken about his conclusions with any of his housemates before, and it was past time that he shared what he knew. "It may sound crazy, but I believe Marguerite has deliberately antagonized us all these years precisely because she _does_ care about other people. She's grumbled, whined and complained about the food, the heat, the hiking, the chores, and the danger; she's criticized us, mocked us, and treated each of us with contempt at times… but it was all to convince us to keep our distance from her. She behaved unpleasantly enough to make us cautious in our expectations of her, but she also contributed enough that we didn't kick her out. Her harum-scarum mannerisms are meant to make us feel like she's not a trustworthy friend. I think the fact of the matter is that she doesn't believe it's safe for others to become her friends. I also believe that she doesn't think she deserves friends."

Veronica, to his relief, didn't shrug off his conclusions as utter nonsense, but seriously considered his statements. She pursed her lips and paced back and forth for a few moments, deep in thought, and he waited patiently to see whether his fellow hunter could confirm his insights.

"Misdirection. That certainly explains quite a lot," she finally admitted. "But it can't be as simple as you say, Roxton. You and Challenger, and even Ned, have told me about Parsifal's heroism, but maybe Marguerite knows herself better than you think. Just because she was on the right side during your Great War doesn't mean she isn't still – what was the term you used? – self-serving, like she is about being rich. She isn't always trustworthy; I think she could go both ways, siding with either good or evil." Roxton shot her a sharp look, but she shrugged and stood her ground. "You know I'm right."

He shook his head in disagreement. "No, not once you learn to set aside the outward appearance she flaunts." He turned to face her again, leaning against the railing and folding his arms across his chest as he verbalized the evidence he'd long mulled. "It's all a flash in the pan, Veronica, no substance. She complains constantly about chores, so she appears indolent or unaccommodating. But she'll work for hours digging gems with meticulous care and never-flagging energy. She grumbles about sewing, but does exquisite workmanship. She grouses about every long trip away from the tree house to map possible routes off the Plateau, but she enjoys the natural grandeur of our surroundings, and spends a great deal of her free time outdoors. She scoffs at higher education, but has an amazing scope of knowledge that proves she's spent hours studying – you can't deny that she's often to be found reading the books belonging to the various scientists who've lived here. She fusses about the complexities of mastering new languages, but thrives on discovering new people, cultures, and, yes, their languages. She claims her own financial future and physical security are her top priorities, but time and again she's knowingly, willingly put herself on the line for the rest of us. And she rarely seems to be paying any attention to the wood lore either you or I have tried to teach her … but she's learned enough that she's been out on her own the past two weeks without any mishaps. She flirts with the best of either the whores or the so-called 'upper class' ladies I've known. But when I stop to think about it, she hasn't actually slept with a man since I've met her."

He broke off abruptly, his last words bringing forth images of their time trapped in that bloody cave, and their delicious lovemaking. Fire surged through his loins at his memories of those long passionate moments. _Loving her was more than the sum of all my dreams and fantasies. There was no reason for any pretence that day, both of us convinced we would die either when the oxygen ran out or when the coal gas overwhelmed us. The things said and done there…_ Despite his occasional doubts, he couldn't really conceive of there being anything less than absolute truth between them. He'd found the real woman there in that cave, the woman he'd suspected was deep inside her all along. It was reassuring to remember that fact now, in the midst of this situation with Maria. Although some of Marguerite's protective walls had gone back up after they'd escaped from the cave – all the more so since Maria's arrival – still, he knew she was truly gentle, generous, sensitive, tender-hearted, giving, loving, ... and oddly innocent.

_Innocent: a strange word to describe Marguerite, yet… not so strange._ _ Despite everything she's been and done, despite her supposedly "low morals", she's always been a relatively modest woman who treasures her privacy. Daring, yes; Marguerite is daring. But wanton? No. Okay, I know she seduced a giant, a casino owner, and a handful of other men who threatened us. But she only went far enough to lure those men into traps so that we could all survive. Sensuality is just another weapon in her arsenal, it's not who she really is inside. She makes it look easy to be 'bad', but she's never taken it as lightly as she'd like us to believe. I found that out in that cave, when we were lying there in one another's arms, just talking, resting. _

_It hurt her to be Parsifal, to be hard and cold; she was afraid there was nothing left of the real feelings she'd hidden deep inside herself. But she knows another way now, she was drawn to it by the inner person she truly is, and she's been choosing it over the old ways since before she understood she was still capable of better instincts. I know that side of her better than she does._ He also understood Marguerite's newly-shy, somewhat hesitant but still passionate responses to him since they'd escaped the cave; once the threat of imminent death was gone, her old fears about committing to him had returned full force, making her question the wisdom of not only admitting that she loved him but also giving herself physically to him. _I'm not wrong about who she really is. It's one thing to confess her love when there's no future to contend with, quite another for her to face up to those complications of her past that she believes will hurt me, the man she loves. No, it's only natural that she'd pull back at least a little.__ But she'll come around again. I'll convince her it that what we did wasn't a mistake and that there's no need to worry about allowing us to resume - _

Veronica cleared her throat, and he blinked and then reddened at being caught in his daydreams. "Uh… sorry. Lost my train of thought there for a second…"

"So I noticed," she giggled, having a pretty fair idea of exactly what he'd been thinking about. She'd seen that bemused, besotted look on his face often enough when he and Marguerite emerged from some secluded corner where they'd thought no one would know they'd been kissing and cuddling.

He swallowed hard, wished his ears weren't burning, and tried to return to the topic at hand. "Maybe she might have been capable of going either way once, Veronica, but there's not a single doubt in my mind that Marguerite would choose good over evil any day of the week," he declared gruffly, choosing to disregard his earlier exhaustion-fueled suspicions about her true nature now that he was beginning to think clearly again.

The Plateau's protector studied him for a long moment. "I hope you're right. But you have to admit, Roxton, that since Maria's arrival, it's as bad as it ever was."

"Exactly my point," he replied firmly. "It's all calculated for effect. She's acting in a way that's designed to make us dislike and distrust her. Her inconsistency is actually perfectly consistent. Could there possibly be any other explanation for why a woman as bright and self-controlled as Marguerite would so often allow her temper to rule her?"

"I think he's got something there."

Both Roxton and Veronica were surprised to find that Ned had joined them without drawing their attention until he'd spoken. His hair was still sleep-rumpled, his cheeks still flushed from waking recently, and he hadn't bothered to pull on his boots before hunger had drawn him upstairs for the glass of water and the fruit now in his hands. But he was alert enough to have picked up the gist of their conversation. He'd grown fond of the brunette whose merciless teasing had so often had him at loggerheads with her in their early years on the Plateau, and he'd noticed details that certainly confirmed Roxton's discernments.

He shared the things he'd noticed. "I think a lesser woman than Marguerite would've been reduced to helpless terror here on the Plateau – well, unless she'd been raised here, like you," he added with a smile at the blonde huntress. "But Marguerite has more courage than most men I know. Not that I haven't seen her scared; she just sets aside her own fear to help others, like you do, Veronica. She's even faced mortal danger on behalf of people she's only known for a short while, like King Gawain." Ned took a sip from his glass, and then added, "And she's smart, too, way smarter than any other woman I've ever met – no offense, Veronica. Maybe 'smart' isn't the right word. Educated, perhaps, is better. I've never mentioned a book that she hasn't read or brought up a subject where she didn't have at least basic knowledge. And she actually gets what Challenger's talking about, whether it's geology, electricity, or chemistry. But if we hadn't seen how often that's happened since we got stranded here, we'd never have known how smart she is. She keeps quiet about it. She knows about all kinds of weapons, and I think she knows way more about _everything_ than she'll admit. I agree with Roxton. Marguerite doesn't do anything without a reason."

George Challenger shuffled across to join them, his joints still aching from the unaccustomed length of time in a reclining position. "What are we discussing?" he asked as he eased himself onto Roxton's abandoned balcony chair and gingerly stretched out his legs.

Once Veronica explained the hunter's theory and summarized Ned's additional observations about Marguerite, the red-headed scientist nodded sagely. "Yes, there were signs quite early on that our mysterious Miss Krux wasn't simply a haughty, bored heiress squandering her fortune for the sake of idle amusement, which was what my dear wife Jessie thought when the two of them met that day in London. Both Arthur and I took note of her extensive education, and I concur that she's mastered far more than gemology and linguistics. It was only a comment or two at first, things both Arthur and I noted while we were still journeying here – but I knew for certain when she turned my gas line into a flame thrower." At their startled reactions he chuckled. "I forgot you three were at that giant bee hive at the time, so you missed it, but her quick thinking saved our lives when the apemen attacked the compound. That was also the same day that she pretended to be Summerlee's wife, Anna, to comfort him when he was delirious. After that day I had no doubt that she was a most unusual woman, with both more brains and more heart than she wanted anyone to know."

"Okay," Veronica said slowly, "So we're agreed that Marguerite believes what she told Roxton; she really does think that knowing the truth about her might somehow endanger us. So she only shows her true colors in extreme situations, and the rest of the time she behaves… inconsistently… and tries to hide her better qualities?" She glanced around at the men.

"I believe that is an accurate representation, as best as it can be understood with the facts at hand," George approved.

"So where does Maria fit into this? Why does Marguerite see her as a threat?"

At the blank looks from Challenger and Malone, Roxton quickly sketched what he'd witnessed that morning. "Despite her determination not to be 'wrapped around' Maria's little finger, Marguerite definitely has strong feelings about the baby. Maybe her aversion to Maria has something to do with her own childhood. She rarely speaks of her youth, and from what little she's said, she has very few positive memories. But somewhere along the line, she definitely learned about taking care of children younger than herself."

"And based on the thorough care she gave Maria today, we'd be able to manage Maria's addition to the family much more easily if Marguerite would actually help," Veronica added. "But if Roxton's right that she's behaving this way because she's concealing something she thinks could endanger us, then we need to know what she knows that we don't. It has to be more than her thinking that having Maria here will make us too tired to stay safe."

"Can't deny that we were pretty punchy yesterday," Ned confessed with a grimace. "The fact that none of us realized Maria was teething is proof enough of that. But I can't see how Marguerite can protect us from being overtired by distancing herself from us."

John spoke up again. "I agree. I think it's more likely to be something from her past. It may not be a physical danger, but an emotional one. If it was something that might affect her relationships with us – not that I can imagine what that might be, but if she feared something coming to light that would make us censure her and withdraw from her, I believe her instincts would tell her to protect herself by cutting us off before we can do the same to her."

"Well, that theory fits with what we know of Marguerite's pattern of behavior," Challenger mused, stroking his beard, "Still, whatever her trepidations, today little Maria proved to be a catalyst that can bring forth Marguerite's finer instincts. With proper consideration, we should be able to devise a plan utilizing the same ingredients in a more controlled manner to yield the same or similar results. That would provide the opportunity for productive discourse with her."

Ned grinned, his imagination taking off with possibilities. "Turn about is fair play, eh? We plan a little scenario of our own? Something where Marguerite can't keep us from seeing that she knows how to look after a child?"

"Precisely. That would open the door to honestly discussing her past, or whatever it is that's troubling her. Might be best if you handle that part yourself, old boy," Challenger suggested, glancing up at John from beneath his bushy brows.

Roxton frowned. "Yes, but we'll all need to be prepared for the fallout. Once she realizes we cornered her, she'll definitely throw a tantrum. Also, if we do get past her defenses and discover whatever it is she wants to hide from us, we have to be prepared to prove to her that she has our whole-hearted acceptance and that we'll stand by her through anything she might still fear. We'll have to convince Marguerite that our love and respect for her are unshakable."

Challenger nodded. "Agreed. This entire situation with Maria will also act as a catalyst to prove to her that she has no reason for concern about our reactions to the revelation of any further secrets she may still harbor," he added, knowing it was something the dark haired couple needed to work through to build a lasting life together.

Veronica never liked deceptions of any kind, but she'd grown to care deeply about Marguerite, despite their frequent confrontations and philosophical differences. She'd have preferred to simply face her friend with what Roxton had seen this morning, but it was all-too-probable that she would flatly deny that any such thing had happened, and without a second witness it would be her word against John's. Without a doubt, nothing good could come of that, and each of the men knew it as well as she did. Roxton's revelation about how the wary brunette used her temperament as a weapon of both defense and offense made her ache for her friend. Ned's assessment had impressed her, and with Challenger's agreement as well, she felt that their idea for helping Marguerite should be given a fair consideration.

The three men waited as she leaned against the railing and thought it through. "I think you're right that she's capable of hiding who she really is and how she really feels about things, and she definitely has the gall and the determination to carry it off," she mused. "I can't imagine what it would be like to live every day watching my every word, controlling my body language and attitude every waking moment. It must take a terrible toll on her if, as you say, she's constantly trying to protect us as well as herself. Looking after just one person sometimes felt like too great a burden to me when I was alone," she sighed, then shook off her pensiveness, turned to the men, and said with her usual decisiveness, "I love the times when Marguerite is wholly with us and we're all one family. If there's something we can do to help make that happen with more frequency, maybe even permanently, then it's worth doing. I say we go for it."

Roxton nodded, satisfied with his companions' commitment to drawing Marguerite back into the fold. "Good. All we need now is a plan."

"Of course, we need to remember that she says people are more interesting with secrets," Challenger wryly reminded the others, making them chuckle. "When it comes right down to it, Marguerite may very well simply clam up and refuse to answer, just as she's previously done."

It had happened often enough in the past that they all knew they could live with such a consequence until she'd relaxed again. The greatest risk was that manipulating her into doing something she wanted to avoid might rouse her formidable ire. Yet in exchange for the chance to demonstrate that their love for her was strong enough that they wouldn't turn from her, incurring her wrath was a hazard they were prepared to face.

They quickly hammered out a plan designed to reach past the barriers their friend had re-erected since Maria's arrival. The most likely way to encourage her to open up to them again was to ensure that Marguerite spent more time with the baby, like this morning. If their scheme led to nothing else, it would provide an opportunity to expose her obvious experience with babies before multiple witnesses so that they could then ask her about it, which would start a genuine conversation with her.

They were careful to keep their voices low so that Marguerite wouldn't overhear them. She didn't come up from her room, for which they were thankful since it allowed them plenty of time to work out the exact details of their plan. Between conferencing and looking after Maria, it was only when they were ready to implement their strategy in the late afternoon that they realized she'd slipped away from the tree house again. Veronica went downstairs expecting to come back with their annoyed housemate, and instead returned to the men carrying a note she'd found pinned to their friend's door. It read simply, "Back before dark."

"I didn't hear her leave," Roxton muttered uncomfortably, always unhappy when he'd missed a detail that could affect the group's security, and Marguerite's security in particular. Although he'd had little choice but to tolerate it, he'd never been pleased about the frequency with which his wily counterpart evaded her housemates and wandered off on her own. He'd lectured her time and again that it was dangerous, but she was so fiercely independent…! It didn't help his cause any that she only ran into trouble a very small percentage of the time when she was by herself, and on those rare occasions she'd managed to scrape through fairly well.

"Have we missed our chance now that she's taken off for the rest of the day?" Ned asked. "Or will it still work if we do it tomorrow instead?"

Even though the groundwork for their current plan had been Roxton's brainchild, the three younger adults each looked to the ginger-haired scientist for an evaluation of whether the opportunity could be salvaged.

After considering the question for a moment, Challenger smiled and said heartily, "With a few adjustments I believe our ploy will work even better if we start first thing tomorrow morning! That will allow an entire day instead of only a few hours to gather information. However," he raised a cautionary hand, "We'll need to exercise caution not to reveal anything when she comes home tonight. The odds against our success will increase dramatically if she senses a conspiracy."

It took only a bit more discussion to work out the additional details. Once they were each satisfied that they understood their respective roles, they separated to tend to their neglected duties.

After his other chores were completed, John took advantage of Marguerite's absence to slip into her room, hoping to find that defect in her window's construction, the one that caused the wind to make such a disturbing sound. He'd heard it briefly again that afternoon when he'd gone to his room to change his shirt after Maria regurgitated her mid-afternoon feeding on it. He hadn't had time to search out the sound's source then, in the middle of their planning; but since Marguerite had gone out, now would be a good time to find and solve the problem. He didn't want that keening noise to interrupt his sleep again as it had before. Rest was too precious a commodity.

Unfortunately, now that he had the time to search for it, the haunting noise refused to evidence itself. Without the eerily human whisper of sound to trace, he was still looking for any possible anomaly at dusk when Marguerite returned from wherever she'd been this time.

"Welcome back. Did you have a nice afternoon?" he asked without turning from his examination of the final corner of the window frame. When she didn't reply to the cheerful greeting, a quick look over his shoulder confirmed that she was annoyed at finding him in her room. Undeterred, he went on with his task. He was positive that if he could find and fix the flaw, she'd be less upset about his presence in her bedroom.

The weary woman dropped her pack on her bed and watched as he continued to carefully work his fingers over the hand-hewn wood in search of gaps or holes. When it became clear that he wasn't going to add anything else to his initial greeting, she glared impatiently at his broad back and asked, "Exactly what do you think you're doing, Roxton?"

"I'm looking for whatever it is that causes the wind to make that weird sound, remember, the one I heard a couple weeks ago? I heard it again last night after we went to bed, then this afternoon as well. I'm surprised you've never asked one of us to have a go at fixing it. You're not usually one to let anything inconvenience you for long, and it must have bothered you." Concentrating on the fitting of the woodwork, he didn't see the discomfort that flickered in Marguerite's clear gaze as he coaxed, "Just give me a couple more minutes…"

After a moment of awkward silence, she said through obviously gritted teeth, "Roxton, just leave."

Hearing the steely impatience in her tone, he reluctantly complied. _Better not rile her now; might mess up our plans._ He shook his head as he straightened away from the window, hands on his hips as he glared balefully at the offending construction. "I don't get it. I've been over this half a dozen times. There's a nice breeze coming through, but I don't hear anything unusual, and I don't see anything that could be causing it. How often do you hear it, Marguerite?" As he turned to face her, he rubbed his back to ease the ache of having been bent over for an extended period.

Marguerite sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes before glaring at him once more. Her booted foot began to tap, and one hand fisted on a shapely hip - clear signs to her experienced beau that now was not a good time to ask for answers about anything.

Unwilling to provoke her further, he quickly moved away from the window. "I'll just check again next time I hear it." He paused as he noted with concern that she looked tired – more than tired; tense and careworn as well as impatient. _My poor darling. She needs to relax. Marguerite always seems to enjoy the evenings_ w_e've__ spent together on either the upper or lower balconies, looking out over the jungle… especially if we can manage to elude the others. _ He summoned his most charming grin and asked, "Would you like to spend a few minutes on the balcony with me before dinner?" _Since Maria's arrival we haven't shared time together like that at all. I've missed our moments alone… _His lips curved upward at the recollection of tender, intimate kisses and embraces exchanged in the shadows of the relatively private balconies since their time trapped in the cave.

She studied him oddly, almost as if she was taken aback at his offer. Whatever she saw didn't seem to please her. "No. I won't be up for dinner. I'm just going to turn in."

His smile faded. He knew that cold, flat tone quite well, although it had been some months since he'd heard his lady use it with anyone in the tree house. When she was in this kind of mood, even Arthur Summerlee hadn't been able to generate any sign of softening.

He acknowledged her reply with a nod of assent, and said quietly, "Good night, then, Marguerite." Somberly, he left her room. _Our plan tomorrow has to work! I miss seeing her smile, hearing her voice, knowing she's at my side or nearby throughout the day – I even miss our squabbles!_ He longed for a return of their teasing, and for the physical closeness she hadn't permitted him since they'd brought the baby home. _ I need her standing shoulder to shoulder with me again. I need the casual brushing of our hands as we pass food to one another at the table, and the verbal repartee that lightens the passing of the evening hours, the laughter I win from her sometimes… not to mention the terrific spooning we enjoyed over the last couple months before we found Maria._ They hadn't done more than ardent kissing and cuddling, but he'd taken a great deal of satisfaction in those milder indulgences, and he was looking forward to regaining his former privileges once they had this situation cleared up.

He hummed happily to himself as he vanished through the doorway, and Marguerite flinched. She stood still for a long moment, staring after him. _Could this day get any better?_She scowled darkly at the now-empty doorway as she struggled to accept what had just happened. _Well! That certainly clears up any question about whether it's genuine happily-ever-after romantic notions he has in mind for the two of us!_

She'd believed him in the cave. After all, whatever time they had left until the coal gas killed them or they ran out of oxygen had been all the future they would ever have. She'd allowed herself to forget about her remaining secrets, because there was no way they could affect his love in the brief hours they would live. For the first time in her life, she hadn't needed to concern herself with her past or how it would impact the future. There had only been the here and now. She had rarely ever indulged herself in enjoying the present without considering the future, but when the here and now had become the future… it had been more than she'd ever dreamed it could be: free from who she had been, free from whatshe had been, free to be loved and to love in return.

And then he'd found a way to escape the cave after all, and in escape she'd lost her precious, fleeting freedom.

She'd once told him that the two of them were a disaster waiting to happen. Back then, she'd known that a time would inevitably come when he would realize she wasn't truly worthy of him. At heart, Roxton was a man of honor, and as such she had fully expected that the day he discovered who and what she really was, any love he felt toward her would wither and die. When his pursuit of her had become courtship and not merely a quest for personal gratification, she'd initially resisted, because she _knew_ beyond a shadow of a doubt that while he was attracted to who he imagined she was, he could never continue to love her once he discovered the truth. She could understand such an end to their relationship, and even as she'd fallen more and more in love with him, she'd dragged her feet, stalled for all she was worth, and held herself half-braced for the unavoidable.

But Roxton's constant devotion over their time on the plateau had slowly persuaded her to set aside her insecurities, to trust him, to believe that fairytales could come true. Sure, he'd lost his temper with her, often spectacularly, particularly after she behaved badly like when the Dillons had visited, or if she'd lied to them as she had in her effort to protect them from her possession of the Ouroboros – or even when he ran out of patience with her grumbling, as he had when they'd been stuck in the cave. Yet despite his brief explosions of temper, his devotion to her had never wavered. Even when she flat out told him he couldn't love her after the first time he'd blurted that he loved her, even then he'd doggedly wooed her. She hadn't a clue how they could work through everything in her past… but she'd allowed herself to hope, to enjoy his company, to dream that she might have a future with him. And then the cave had collapsed and they'd been trapped, and, faced with the end of their lives, she had admitted to him that she loved him, too. If only it could have stayed like that! If only that really had been the end! She would have died quite happily, secure in his love for her. However, once they escaped that cave, reality had returned with a vengeance.

There was no doubt in her mind that he believed his love was strong enough to overcome her past. She also believed his vow that he intended their love to be forever. She'd thought he meant the marrying kind of forever, although he hadn't actually come out and said as much. Their mutual confessions of love bound them to one another whether his devotion could survive her past or not. She'd been worried ever since the cave that his eventual disillusionment would demoralize and inescapably destroy him. She'd devoted considerable thought over the past few months to ways to protect him from believing himself honor bound to her, to make it permissible within his principles to distance himself when the time came.

But his invitation to an obvious tryst on the balcony, now _that_ was a possibility she hadn't seen coming. He'd found his own way to reframe their relationship.

Combined with the fact that his harsh words of the previous night were still unresolved between them, tonight's invitation to join him on a balcony meant that he only wanted what every other man had wanted from her. _Only a man who's lusting after a woman's body instead of – well, character, for lack of a better word, although it's not quite fitting in my case since I have no character worth wanting anyway – whatever! The bottom line is that now that he knows I'm not fit to be his wife and mother of his heirs, rather than drop me altogether, he's decided I'm still mistress material. He won't have to hold back because of my reservations any longer. I suppose I should be flattered that he's still attracted enough to want me as a lover. I don't know why it never occurred to me that he might still fancy a tumble even after he realized I'm not good for any more than that. Somehow I thought we would just be… over. But of course it isn't over yet. He still wants to play; he's a man. I've just been denying reality to think that it would end any differently with him than with any other man. What a fool I've been! _

The confrontation of the previous evening had replayed over and over in her mind throughout the long span of last night's darkness and the difficult drawn-out hours of this day. She'd repeatedly told herself that the blunt, angry assessments of her housemates had been prompted by overwrought emotions, and that their words had been tainted by their being exhausted and stressed about the child. After a good rest, she'd assured herself, after they thought it through, the others would apologize for their harshness. She'd hoped against hope that they didn't really think so badly of her after only a tiny glimpse of the truth about her. _Was it so ridiculous to hope that I might actually belong here?_ _That I might have found a home and a family, people who cared about me? Did I just want so badly to believe in John and me, in happily-ever-after love, that I fooled myself that I'd rediscovered qualities still deep within me that I'd long believed dead or permanently suppressed? Am I beyond redemption after all? Is there no hope whatsoever? _ Oh, she had prayed for that hope to be rewarded, just for once in her life.

In a determined effort not to totally fall to pieces after their unwarranted attack the previous evening, she'd worked her way through everyone's chores during her long sleepless night, all the while nursing that hope. And she'd clung tight to that hope while she'd looked after the baby this morning, as difficult as it had been to do, so that these people she'd grown to care so much about could have their much-needed rest and would see things more clearly today. Despite being unsure she possessed the strength to carry it off, she'd disciplined herself to shut off her emotions, refused to allow even a moment of dwelling on memories – _with the sole exception of that moment when I'd finished changing her and she was fresh and clean and so much like – no, can't think about that!_ Marguerite forced herself back to the present. She'd undertaken the task of minding the baby out of love and concern for these people, the closest thing to family that she was likely to know.

Well alright, her conscience forced her to be honest with herself, at the very least she'd taken care of the baby to prove she _could._ In the back of her mind, she'd toyed with the odds that if she managed to do it once, then perhaps she could adjust to the child's presence after all. If she could do it this time, then there was a slight chance things could work out, a chance that she could be part of a group that included an infant.

But despite adding even more chores to the task of watching the baby, intending to stay too busy to think too much as she watched Maria, being with the infant had taken far too terrible an emotional toll. Tending the child wasn't something she ever wanted to face doing again.

And on top of everything else, it now appeared that the entire effort had been in vain. When they'd awakened in the early afternoon, not one of the other adults had sought her out to apologize. They'd been busy with their own activities and with Maria. They probably hadn't even noticed when their lonely housemate had finally absented herself from the tree house again rather than continue to endure hearing them fuss over Maria.

_I gave them time to rest._ _I put my very sanity at risk for them, and what do I get for it?_ _No one but John even bothered to greet me when I came in tonight, let alone showed any sign of looking for an opportunity to say they regretted how they allowed their tempers to get the best of them last night. Veronica and Ned actually avoided me as I passed through on the way to my room. They're obviously still upset with me. _When she'd found John in her chamber looking for "that sound", she'd thought at first that he, at least, was doing something nice to apologize for his condemning remarks about her. But no, he was only trying to eliminate a sound that bothered _him_, not offer a gesture of reconciliation to a woman he'd spent the last several years trying to coax into a romance. And then he'd topped it off by inviting her to resume the physical indulgences they'd enjoyed before the child's adoption – undoubtedly a prelude to complete intimacy. He was once again ready to focus on the mutual attraction between them, with nary a sign that he'd even considered taking back what he'd said. They were right back where they'd been at the beginning, with John wanting to bed her, to claim his trophy, even though he considered her to be a person of bad character.

How could she have allowed herself to be so blindsided? She hadn't believed John or the others were this shallow. Could she be wrong about the way things appeared right now? Was she misinterpreting what was happening here?

Desperately wanting to be wrong, she paced quietly and reviewed the situation yet again. _None of them have ever been backward about admitting it when they misspeak to one another. There've been many times when living in such close quarters has provoked hasty words, and as soon as tempers cool, apologies are made. Arthur called it "keeping short accounts", and said it was necessary for healthy emotions when so many people live in such a confined space. Even I've grudgingly expressed my regrets a time or two. So if none of them are coming to me to set things right with me, it must be because no one thinks there's any need for apologies. That means it wasn't sleep deprivation and worry speaking last night. They must've truly meant their words. And if that's true… then I've allowed myself to be the worst kind of fool. _

Marguerite swallowed hard over the lump in her throat, and impatiently wiped away the dampness that had gathered in her eyes. She wouldn't compound her idiocy by indulging in further stupidity. _Now that I know the truth, I have to do something about it. I can't go on behaving like this will all work out if I only wait long enough. I'll be making a bad situation worse if I refuse to deal with the facts._

Of course, she'd been considering how to handle the situation ever since Maria had taken hold of their hearts. She'd suspected she wouldn't be able to react to the child as the others expected. She'd come up with two possible courses of action for dealing with the situation. The first and preferred method had been to simply stand pat and stick to her guns about not getting involved in the baby's care. There had been a certain security in the idea of continuing to live at the tree house, provided she could maintain her resolve about noninvolvement.

After today it was obvious that plan wasn't going to work. She wasn't strong enough to keep her distance while the others became so exhausted that they couldn't look after either the child or themselves. She reflected sourly that this was one of her worst nightmares come to life: Because she'd let down her guard with them, she now cared too much about people who didn't even respect her – worse still, she was too weak-willed to stand by while the little brat lacked for care, either. There was no way she could stay at the tree house when it was clear from today's experience that she lacked the gumption to hold herself aloof.

Minding the brat this morning while the others caught up with their direly-needed rest had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done. She'd survived it, yes, but at the cost of such anguish that she'd had another despicable bout of weeping. She'd cried more during her last four years on this bloody plateau than she had in the last two decades! Crying was a monumental and potentially fatal weakness, a fruitless indulgence that had no benefit, a failure of self-discipline for which she despised herself. _Today's outburst was, what, the fourth time since we found that brat, or was it the fifth? In a fortnight! I've totally lost control! And John heard me, as he has several times now since the brat's arrival. _

Now that John had moved into the bedroom next door and had heard her losing the struggle with her emotions – not that he'd made the connection yet – he would continue to search until he discovered what was causing the sound that intruded on his sleep. She'd been fortunate to be separated so nicely from the others during the nighttime for most of these last four years. The location of her chamber had protected her from discovery on those rare occasions when she suffered lapses in self-control. How she hated to cry! It was sheer luck that none of the others had ever caught her at it. It would've increased their prying into her past a hundred-fold.

But her luck had ended the day they'd found that baby.

Clearly she couldn't survive here in the same living space as that baby; particularly not now that she'd learned what her "friends" really thought about her. Of course, even if they'd apologized, even if they'd cared, she couldn't have stayed. No, she'd endured a great deal in her life, but only once before had her heart ached as it did now. _I should've known better than to set aside the lessons I've learned. I have to face it. There's only one option left, and I knew all along that it was the more likely of the two choices. I shouldn't have put off implementing it. What on earth was I thinking, staying here and hoping some miracle would occur to fix things, hoping for that bright new future John promised? I've always been a realist. Clinging to false hope is foolish, just as foolish as believing I might ever find my real family. It's clear now that I've never belonged with these people; they'll never accept me. There's no identity for me here. I should have done this a long time ago. _

_Time to set aside dreams of things that can never be and get back to doing what has to be done. Time to prepare for tomorrow, time to get back to reality._ She began to move quietly around her room, doing what she should have done the first day that baby had come to the tree house.

xxxxx

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, not too hot and not too cold. It was perfect for the plans that had been set in motion. The coconspirators had been half-afraid that the unpredictable brunette might totally change her recent daily schedule after yesterday's time spent with Maria. But Marguerite did as she'd done every other previous day for the last two weeks; she avoided the breakfast table by choosing a banana to eat as she started her morning chores. They could hear her moving through the lower level with the broom, then circling the lower balcony to cut back the verdant jungle growth that always threatened to overgrow the tree house. By the time her housemates had finished breakfast, she'd completed the maintenance tasks Veronica had assigned to her for this day. She came back to the upper level to put away the broom and shears, then, without a word to the others, caught up her rifle and hat and made a beeline for the elevator.

Even watching for the moment she would begin to leave, Veronica barely caught Marguerite before the lever could be activated to send the elevator down. "Hold it! I need you to watch Maria!" she declared firmly, literally jumping the last two steps to reach the brunette in time.

Marguerite's already-present scowl deepened. She didn't look at the child cradled in Veronica's arms, but focused on the younger woman with icy disdain. "Not a chance. Only yesterday you said you'd never let me watch the brat again, and I'm just fine with leaving it that way."

It had been quite a while since the European woman had spoken with such a sneer or visually stabbed her hostess like that, but although it stung, Veronica refused to be intimidated. "I know what I said yesterday, but it's absolutely necessary. I'm sorry, Marguerite, but unless you'd like to go climb a cliff to dig up a plant Challenger needs for his experiment tomorrow, there's no choice," the blonde said, pleased that she didn't redden at the outright lie.

Marguerite knew the cliffs the other woman meant, and she had neither the desire nor the physical ability to accomplish such a task alone, and both women knew it.

"What about Malone?" Marguerite looked beyond the blonde to where Ned was clearing the breakfast table. She noted that both the reporter and the hunter had their packs sitting beside the table, clearly loaded to sustain them on day-long duties, and she braced herself for a verbal battle as she realized the two men had other assignments. _Can nothing ever go smoothly? This should be so simple! Why did they have to pick today to get insistent about sharing baby duties?_

Veronica shook her head and mentally crossed her fingers for the second time in less than a minute as she said, "Challenger needs him to go to Krux Mountain to take readings on his weather … thingy. You don't know how to work that, remember?"

Marguerite didn't bother suggesting John; she knew Roxton had to hunt as well as cutting and hauling wood inside the fence today, since they were almost out of firewood. And no one in his right mind would suggest that George Challenger should watch a baby at the same time he was pursuing an experiment. She sighed in frustration and stepped back off the elevator, dropping her rifle back into its slot on the gun rack. _It looks like I'll have to do a little maneuvering to settle this before I can get out of here._

Mistaking Marguerite's exodus from the elevator as a sign that she was yielding, Veronica hid her triumph with difficulty and shrugged, "Sorry. But we all have to pitch in, Marguerite. And you're the only one who isn't doing something essential." She held out the baby, who gurgled at the brunette.

But Marguerite didn't take Maria. Her body stiffened, back ramrod straight, chin up; her green eyes flashed with resentment. "Just because what I'm doing isn't essential for _group_ survival doesn't mean it's not essential for _me_," she retorted sharply. "And I'm not going to let that brat interfere with what I need to do!"

Veronica slowly curled Maria back against herself and turned to watch as the angry beauty marched past her, across the great room and into the kitchen. Puzzled, she watched Marguerite open the cooler. If she was refusing to look after Maria, then what was she doing?

The three men tried not to be too obvious as they, too, followed Marguerite's movements.

The irate brunette withdrew three of George's specially designed baby bottles, and slammed the cooler door closed. As she marched back out of the kitchen she snagged a handful of diapers off the counter. Next she grabbed a spare backpack from a wall peg and dropped it onto the bench beside the elevator doorway. She stuffed the bottles and diapers into the pack and left it sitting open on the bench while she stalked down the stairs.

The other adults exchanged questioning looks, but no one had a clue what she was doing, and there wasn't time to discuss it. She returned within moments, holding a change of clothes for Maria and three blankets from Maria's room. The clothes and two of the blankets she jammed into the rucksack with the diapers and bottles, and latched it shut with brisk precision. Then she dropped to her knees on the floor with the third blanket, spread it out, and deftly, with swift confident motions, began a series of specific folds, finally bringing the ends together into knots.

The men rose from the table to join Veronica, and they all stared curiously at the heiress.

When she rose to her feet she stalked back over to Veronica and took Maria long enough to lift the reshaped blanket up over the blonde's head and settle it down on her shoulders with the cloth now draped over her chest. Then Marguerite pulled one fold of the blanket forward and slipped the baby through the opening, into the blanket contraption.

More than one jaw dropped as they realized Marguerite had just created a pouch for Maria to ride in. It left the baby tucked neatly against the jungle girl's body while leaving Veronica's arms and hands free. As the others stared in amazement at the result of the brunette's handiwork, the dark-haired adventuress strode around the blonde. She ignored the bemused and questioning faces peering at her, and critically studied her handiwork. She checked where the contraption hung on Veronica, and how the knots sat on the blonde's shoulders, as well as the tightness of the cloth seat around little Maria's body. After making several small adjustments, she nodded in satisfaction. "There. That will hold her just fine. You'll have no trouble moving quite naturally." She snatched up the pack in which she'd stored Maria's clothes, food and blankets, and shoved it into Veronica's hands. "Now you have everything you need to take the brat with you to get Challenger's plant," she said firmly.

Maria giggled, liking it inside the cozy blanket pouch.

Veronica blinked incredulously down at the contented baby and the contraption, then looked back up. She squeaked in astonishment, "Up a cliff?"

Marguerite ignored her exclamation, picked up her rifle again, and turned back toward the elevator. As she stepped in and turned around to reach for the lever, she met the combined gazes of her fellow explorers, all staring agape at her.

"Close your mouths," she said shortly. "You look like a bunch of fish! She's safer with Veronica on a cliff than she is being anywhere with me. As you all pointed out so clearly two nights ago, I'm self-centered and cold-hearted, not a fit person to play mother to a baby, remember?" her cultured voice was carefully devoid of any emotion, but she wasn't as successful at concealing the bitter hurt from her storm-gray eyes and tremulous mouth.

And the elevator took her down.

After a frozen moment, Veronica swung to face the stunned men, aghast as she remembered how they had responded to the heiress when she came upstairs the other night. "Oh no! I forgot all about it!" she gasped. "She must think we meant every word!"

One look at their faces was enough to show that none of the men had thought to apologize, either. They had completely forgotten their angry words to their friend, preoccupied with their discovery of her unexplained skill with babies and their new plans to "help" Marguerite.

But the verbal exchange was clearly still fresh in Marguerite's mind, and there could be no doubt that their words had stung her deeply.

John stepped forward quickly. "I'll go after her." _I can't believe I didn't make that right with her! No wonder she looked so incredulous when I invited her to join me on the balcony! She must've thought I was behaving with exactly the callousness that I suspected of her! I've got to find her – now!_

"Maybe we should all go," Challenger said uneasily. "We were pretty hard on her."

Ned nodded. "The plan can wait. We were out of line to speak like that to her the other night."

Roxton looked annoyed, but didn't argue with their joining him. They waited impatiently for the elevator to come back up, and crowded onto it for the ride down. Expecting to see Marguerite within hailing distance, they were surprised to find that there wasn't a glimpse of her anywhere in sight.

How had she disappeared so quickly? And why?

Knowing it was most likely fruitless, Veronica tried calling for her. "Marguerite?"

No answer, of course.

John suddenly spun on his heel and headed back to elevator. _If she's as mad as she deserves to be, she shouldn't be alone. And I can't wait until she comes back tonight to make this right with her._ "I'm going to get my gun and follow her, just to be certain she's safe. If she's as upset with us as she has every right to be, she may not be thinking carefully about what she's doing out there."

Challenger nodded. "Good idea. Why don't we all go? We are equally at fault, after all."

"If you insist. But I'm not waiting for anyone who falls behind!" Roxton snapped.

They squeezed back into the elevator's basket and engaged the lift mechanism. Glancing at the guilt evident in the handsome hunter's dark green eyes, Veronica searched for something, anything, to say that would take his mind off how angry and hurt Marguerite must be feeling. Maria chortled, and the blonde looked down at the safely-held baby. "This thing is comfortable. It works well," Veronica commented, patting Maria's bottom as she happily babbled baby noises in the pouch.

"Yes, and did you see how effortlessly she made it?" Challenger agreed. "I'd say it confirms your suspicions, John, that Marguerite knows far more about caring for a baby than any of us imagined."

Roxton, who'd been trying to remember exactly what he'd said to Marguerite, suddenly went ashen as it came back to him. Combined with what he'd seen in the last two days and the scientist's words just now, a horrific prospect opened up, one that he ought to have thought of sooner. "It didn't occur to me until just now…" he said slowly. "But what if Marguerite _has_ been a mother? We know she's been married…" At least, he was almost positive that much was true; it was difficult to know to what extent anything she ever said about herself was real and how much was mere smokescreen. Doggedly he forced himself to continue. "If she had a child, and the child died somehow…?"

It was such a logical explanation for both Marguerite's knowledge of raising a baby and her refusal to accept Maria that they simply looked at one another, appalled. Why hadn't such a possibility dawned on them before? Each of them had heard her refer to marriages, but somehow they'd never imagined her with a child as well. Might Maria's presence have brought back painful, even tragic, memories for Marguerite? Suddenly it was much more understandable that she might withdraw from them when they'd so wholeheartedly embraced Maria. And in light of this new possibility, it suddenly seemed terribly unfair that they'd planned to discover her secrets by manipulating her into doing something she didn't want to do, something that might have hurt her.

George Challenger cleared his throat, unhappy and uncomfortable. "I suppose that we've been so busy with Maria that none of us really stopped to wonder what was behind Marguerite's attitude. For my part, I'm so accustomed to her changeable temperament, I simply assumed she was avoiding work, as she historically does with new tasks. But if what you propose is correct, John, then it wasn't the extra chores she's been eschewing, but painful memories of a terrible ordeal in her past."

Ned grimaced and nodded. "It would certainly account for her unwillingness to let herself love another child." The American's blue eyes narrowed as he thought of incidents when they'd been near children. "It also explains her discomfort around children in general, like at the Zanga village or when we were with Pakim and her villagers. Maybe she has a maternal instinct after all. Maybe that instinct was why she couldn't leave Gawain to Vordred's mercy. It could even explain her reaction to Roxton's charge that she wouldn't be a decent mo-" He abruptly cut himself off.

The four friends shifted uneasily, avoiding one another's eyes as they remembered how she had paled and flinched at the hunter's words. Roxton's jaw clenched. _I've blown it big time; how could I have missed this possibility?_

The elevator having reached their arboreal home, the men stepped off to gather their rifles, pistols and utility belts while Veronica waited patiently. Roxton settled his hat on his head, now grim-faced indeed, still avoiding meeting the others' eyes. _If Marguerite really did lose a child of her own, she's going to be mad at me for a very long time, deservedly so! Instead of making assumptions, I should have asked her why she didn't want Maria with us. She must be hurting so badly! She needed me, but I haven't offered her a bit of comfort. Instead of being there for her, I've been busy trying to force her to do things my way or worrying about my own feelings. _Roxton reached for his backpack, wanting to be fully prepared before they descended this time.

Ned started to follow suit, then noticed that one of the packs was missing. He stared at the spot, brow furrowing as he saw that the other packs had been shifted from their usual places, making the absence of one less noticeable. It took the observant reporter only a moment to identify whose gear wasn't in place amongst the rest of the packs. Without being entirely sure why, alarm tickled at the back of his mind. "Marguerite's backpack isn't here. But she didn't have it with her when she left," the reporter said. Following his instincts, Ned darted down the steps and into the room Marguerite had been using since they'd arrived here. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, not wanting to believe what he saw as he skidded to a halt in the center of the bedroom.

Roxton, right on his heels, froze and stared around, stunned. Having learned that Ned's intuition should be heeded, Challenger and Veronica weren't far behind the wary hunter. Ned's exclamation told them to brace themselves, but they were still unprepared for what they found when they reached the room.

The bedroom was neat as a pin, just as it had been the first day Veronica had shown them around her tree house. _Exactly_ as it had been that day.

There wasn't a single sign that Marguerite had ever been here.

No colorful scarves hanging on the cloudy mirror. No piles of half-sorted gems strewn about. No scale and tools on the windowsill or table. No silk blouses, robe, or lacy garments draped on the chair or armoire. No jewelry box, no bottles of shampoos or perfumes, no powders or makeup spread over the bureau. No trunk locked safely in the corner of the room. Not even an indentation on the bed, which was remade with Veronica's original linens that had been stored away for the last three years in favor of Marguerite's own linens brought all the way from London. If they hadn't known better, they wouldn't have suspected Marguerite Krux had ever slept here.

"She's not coming back!" Veronica whispered hoarsely.

John turned from examining fresh marks he'd noticed on the windowsill. "She lowered her things out through here. She must have been at it all night." These grooves on the sill, marks where the rope she'd used had worn into the wood, hadn't been there yesterday. It was a silent testimony to her thorough planning and execution, that she'd done all this with him in the next room and he'd never heard a thing. She must have muffled the sound, perhaps greased the rope… And he'd been so thankful for the sound sleep last night! _This can't be happening. I have to be dreaming…_ He stared at the vacant room, numb.

"It's imperative that we catch up to her immediately and make restituion." Challenger turned back toward the main rooms, and saw a piece of paper pinned on the inside of the curtained door. "A note!" It was addressed simply to "The Challenger Expedition". George glanced uneasily at Roxton, but the hunter just stood there and stared, unmoving. Reluctantly, the expedition's leader unpinned it from the material and unfolded it. He cleared his throat and read her fine, dainty penmanship aloud to the others: "Thank you for including me in the Expedition. I learned a great deal from each of you. However, as you all know, I've always been more akin to a wolf than to sheep, preferring to fleece the flock rather than live in one. It is now more profitable for me to move on without the rest of you. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience. I haven't taken more than I needed. Professor, watch out for those shifting planes of reality. Lord Roxton, I really have paid attention to your lectures about the jungle. Veronica, your parents would be proud of who you've become. Malone, I'm sure your book will be a best seller. Good luck." George cleared his throat again, and added, "It's signed, simply, '_M'."_

Veronica's sky blue eyes were troubled as she looked around at the others. "That certainly confirms that she has no intention of returning."

A slow, deep despair had built in Roxton as he listened to her message. _This is a nightmare!_ _She's left me! She walked out of my life without discussing it with me, without giving us a second thought, without giving our relationship a decent chance! _He couldn't let the others see how hard this was hitting him. Already he was aware of the concern in George's face as the older man glanced awkwardly his way. _Even George knows her going will affect me badly, so how could she not know? Was I right yesterday morning after all? Was our relationship some sort of game to her? _The thought brought a surge of pained anger, and he snorted. "Maybe she found a way off the plateau, and she's just leaving us behind while she beats us home." He didn't truly believe it, but venting his spleen was better than yielding to the unmanly emotional agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

Veronica's head swung toward him and she glared at him. "She wouldn't leave without all of you!"

"Easy," Ned soothed with a rueful smile. "The thought crossed my mind, too," he admitted.

Challenger shook his head, a wan smile touching his lips. "She knows us too well. She added a post script that addresses that very suspicion." He read again: "And no, I haven't secretly found a way off the plateau. At least, not yet. If I should stumble across a way home, I'll send word."

John scowled. He refused to believe she could leave him – or the rest of them, either! – so easily, so glibly, so abruptly. _What am I missing?_ _I couldn't be wrong about our love; I broke through her bloody defenses, made a connection with her in that cave… She admitted her true emotions, I'm sure of it! I've already reasoned through all of this, and I can't give in to doubts again_. _She's left because I hurt her, because we all hurt her, and because of something to do with Maria being here. I've seen how strong her instinct for self-preservation is, we all have, time and again. What's going on in that mind of hers? She always has a plan. No matter how badly she's hurting, she wouldn't just up and leave like this, alone. Besides, she didn't take just her pack. Her trunk is gone, and her letter said she's only taken what she needs._ "Better see what she's taken." Roxton's voice was hard and flat.

Startled, the others eyed him. He wanted to search the tree house instead of getting right on her trail?

He saw their puzzlement and explained gruffly, "This isn't a spur of the moment thing; it's too well organized. Like everything else Marguerite does, this has been planned. Her note says she only took what she needed. Knowing what she thought she needed will help us determine where she might be heading. Remember how she disappeared as soon as she reached the ground? She knows us well enough to know that one or more of us might come after her. Trust me; she was prepared to move quickly. She'll no doubt at least try to conceal her trail, and she'll have worked out someplace to go, a way to take care of herself. It'll be easier to find her if we can assess what supplies she has, so we can anticipate her needs and where she'll have to go to meet those needs."

Accepting this logic, they left Marguerite's room and spread out around the tree house, checking supplies. They called out details to one another as they noted items that weren't to be found. She'd really taken very little with her, when all was said and done: Some of the dried raptor meat, a selection of the bandages and medicinal herbs, a good deal of the laundry soap Veronica usually made once a month, one of their coils of rope, and a couple bags of ammo for her pistol and rifle. Other than that, nothing was missing. She hadn't taken anything she'd be able to find or gather for herself, or anything that belonged to anyone else. In fact, they discovered that their housemate had returned previously-borrowed books and journals to their original places. She'd even left behind the silk robe that had belonged to Veronica's mother, loaned to her by the jungle girl after Roxton had traded Marguerite's for supplies during their first year here; it was hanging from its original hook just inside Veronica's doorway. Veronica couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it first thing this morning. It had been so long since the robe had hung there, but she hadn't looked twice at it!

Amazing that Marguerite had been able to put everything away without anyone noticing what she was doing! And alarming that she'd gathered so few items to take with her.

"Other than her own belongings, she only took things she'd need to survive," Veronica noted sadly when they finished tallying what was gone. "Marguerite loves the little comforts that made the plateau seem less savage to her, but she hasn't taken anything that isn't a necessity – no cushions, none of the novels she enjoys so much, not even coffee beans. I guess that means Roxton was right; she must have a destination in mind, someplace where she'll be provided with the luxuries she enjoys."

"She can't have gone too far with that trunk," Ned suggested thoughtfully. "And she can't have covered her trail for very far. It's not as if she could just pick up everything at once and carry it, especially her trunk."

Challenger added practically, "Or perhaps she had help waiting for her down below. She's been spending a lot of time trading this past year, making little jaunts whenever the opportunity presented itself. She's been gone frequently enough this past two weeks to have made arrangements to hire bearers, if she's truly been planning to leave us."

"What do we do if she really wanted to set out on her own, and this isn't just because we brought Maria home? We have no right to force her to come back," Veronica pointed out uneasily.

"We can deal with that once we find her and apologize." Roxton said firmly. He wouldn't, couldn't accept that she might have been planning to go before Maria's arrival, not without him realizing it. _No, everything in the last year points to our growing closer, especially since the cave. This has to be about Maria. Well, that… and the nonsense we so unfairly spewed at Marguerite._ "Come on, we know enough; it's time to find her now."

But it wasn't to be that easy.

It appeared that Marguerite Krux had done the impossible: she'd disappeared, trunk and all, without leaving a trail. The four of them split up and searched into the afternoon (with Maria snuggled safely and happily in the carry pouch against Veronica's chest the entire time) checking all around the perimeter of the tree house from the fence outward in every direction. But they couldn't find a single sign of which way the heiress had gone, or any clue that she'd had help in leaving.

When they converged at the compound in the mid afternoon to exchange reports, Challenger listened gravely, and then laughed ruefully. The others looked at him, taken aback at his amusement. Still chuckling, he explained, "She implied to me once that she was an international jewel thief wanted on five continents. I didn't quite believe her then, but I'm beginning to think she might have been telling the truth after all! She certainly seems to be capable of vanishing without a trace!"

Veronica had to grin, too, albeit grimly. "Weren't we just saying yesterday that she has more secrets than we think? Apparently, she's been hiding a few talents, and one of them must be flying, so she can avoid leaving a trail!" Her smile faded. "If we can't track her, how can we find her?"

John shook his head in determination. "There's nothing I can't track. I'll bring her home. It will just take some time." _I'll have to think like Marguerite – if that's possible! How does one track a master spy? Where would she go? Where can she go? She's learned a lot these last couple years, yes, but not enough to survive all alone in this land of dinosaurs, headhunters, and shifting planes of reality._

He couldn't seem to wrap his head around the idea that Marguerite had really left him! Just walked out! _Of all the scenarios I've ever imagined about the two of us, none of them included Marguerite simply disappearing._ He ignored Challenger and Ned's speculations about how she'd managed to vanish, and focused on what he could do to find her. Over the last four years he'd become familiar with a lot of Marguerite's tricks, but disappearing without a trace wasn't one she'd employed before now. Maybe she'd always had this capability… or maybe he and Veronica had contributed to this by teaching her the jungle survival skills she'd needed to round out her already formidable arsenal of skills. Whatever the case, he had the sinking feeling that his best hope might be sheer dumb luck.

xxxxx

Marguerite walked along through the lush greenery of the jungle, keeping a steady pace. A sense of satisfaction still lingered over her success in defusing Veronica's expectation that she baby-sit again. If she could ignore the dull ache she was suppressing, and stay focused on making good her escape, she was in good shape for the hike she was undertaking. It was still fairly early, and it was a lovely day.

The mild weather was a good omen, a sign she could cling to during the challenges she was sure to face in the days ahead. _I did the right thing in leaving; everything went smoothly after all, despite my concerns that John would catch on. I have everything I need. I'll survive and do fine on my own, just like always._

She was headed into an area of the plateau where the expedition members had long ago finished a fairly extensive search without finding anything with any promise as either a route home or a source of interesting scientific study. Back then, in the first months after being stranded here, there hadn't been any sign of other civilizations in this area, either transplanted or native, that might be useful to the explorers. There was no unusual zoological or botanical activity, no weird "shifting planes of reality", no geographic anomalies to draw any of them back to this area … just the basic tropical jungle with its dinosaurs and primitive natives. But while they'd been scouting the terrain, Marguerite had found caves she'd felt could be useful.

She'd suggested to the two Professors that the caverns would be a good location for a back-up supply depot, in case something ever happened to the tree house. But since the expedition's leaders felt that their exploration of that part of the plateau was pretty well finished, and there was an almost two-day hike to circle around a dangerous swamp to reach the area, the caves hadn't been convenient enough to their home base. The two men had decreed that it would be a waste of their limited supplies to create a cache in territory they were unlikely to frequent. _In a way, they were right; other than a cursory annual mapping trip to note the topographic changes, we haven't come back this direction. __But this place is too perfect as a backup or a hideout, and I never forgot about it._ The instinct to seek and remember such places was too deeply ingrained.

The memory had taken on a new significance to her when she'd begun thinking about a way to show her friends that she was willing to look on them as her family. As foolish as it seemed in light of her current circumstances, she'd been searching for a gesture to show the others that she'd grown to trust them more than any other people she'd known in her entire life. Since she had no idea how to go about telling them such a thing, she needed a non-verbal way to indicate that she actually _loved_ each member of the makeshift family they'd become. After a lot of consideration, two factors had convinced her to use the cave to accomplish her goal. First, she truly believed it was wise to have a secondary safe location for the entire group, and second, if she changed her mind about sharing it with them, she could simply keep it secret for her own possible future need.

As it turned out, her "future need" had now become the sole purpose.

Ironically, at first she hadn't been certain she'd actually go through with fully preparing it as she'd originally imagined, because doing so exposed her to her housemates in a way she'd long ago learned to avoid. _Hope_ had argued that the results might be good, while _experience_ warned that it would be a mistake to abandon her reserve and wholly trust them. She'd only overcome her ingrained misgivings and begun the project because she could choose to keep it to herself if she decided against gifting it to her housemates. The probability that she'd elect secrecy hadn't diminished the anticipation with which she'd proceeded with planning for the slimmer likelihood that she'd eventually invite the others.

The first step had been to see if there was a faster way to access the site. The long trip around the swamp was out of the question, since she couldn't disappear for days on end without arousing suspicions. Fortunately, on only the third time she'd gone exploring along the edge of the swamp, she'd narrowly avoided being seen by a raptor pack… and from her hiding place half-immersed in putrid swamp beneath scrub brambles, she'd watched the lizards enter the murky woodland. Cautious investigation had revealed a fairly well-traveled trail. She'd not been prepared to attempt such a dangerous path that day, but at the very next opportunity she had armed herself to the teeth and followed that zigzagging trail through to the other side of the swamp. Experience had since taught her that the trail was used by small dinosaurs and some of the plateau's less threatening animal denizens only at first light and near dusk. Oh, there'd been a time or two when she'd encountered creatures on the path, but it had been nothing she couldn't handle.

The cave wasn't too difficult to find once she reached the other side of the swamp, and to her delight it had been exactly as she remembered it. She'd quickly discovered that planning to establish a "second home" there had been an oddly delightful experience.

She'd only stumbled on the cave that first year while pushing bodily through thick, tangled shrubbery to get at the ripest, plumpest berries hanging off branches of a shrub in the middle of a berry patch. She'd never have seen the entrance on the steeply inclined hillside if she hadn't literally fallen in, and there'd been no evidence that anyone else had ever found or used the series of interconnected caverns that sprawled beneath the irregular hills of the surface. When she'd returned last year in order to confirm its suitability for her idea, there'd still been no sign that anyone else had discovered its existence.

Hidden, defensible, supplied by three internal natural springs – one of chilly, fresh water, the other two inexplicably a pair of hot springs – the cavern with its large central space and seven connected smaller grottos clearly contained all the elements of a perfect backup location.

Once the distance factor had been conquered, she'd set about fixing the site for the whole group to use, much as she'd suggested so long ago to Challenger and Summerlee. The more work she'd done on this gift for the others, the more eager she'd been to show how much she appreciated the friendship and acceptance each of them had given her, by giving them something concrete in return.

Now as she exited the swamp trail and started the remaining hike toward her bolt hole, she reflected on the work she'd invested in this place, and considered what to adjust if it was to be used only by herself instead of by the whole group, and probably only temporarily at that. Even though she was the only one who knew of its existence, it was still too close to the tree house to qualify as a permanent home. She'd only stay long enough to evade the search Roxton was bound to undertake, and to fully prepare for the longer journey she would make once she deemed it safe.

_Too bad most of my work will end up going to waste; maybe I should leave some trace for Roxton to lead him there after I'm gone. He'd see the tactical advantages, and then they'd get some good out of everything they've done for me_. _But no – they'd also see way too much of me in there, and that wouldn't do at all. It'll just have to remain a hidden monument to my sentimental folly._

She'd decided to undertake the project only a few days after Roxton and the others had rescued her from Edgar Gray's attempt to hang her for a crime she hadn't committed. _Everyone else was free and clear. Even Roxton had escaped. Despite his promise, I didn't think I'd see him again, and certainly the others had no reason to risk their lives for me like that. But they did, and not one of them expected a thing in return. I think that's what prompted my ridiculous idea, at least in the beginning. _For almost six weeks she'd gathered information, scouted for raw materials, and organized the necessary mental lists. Once she knew precisely what needed to be done, she'd developed a plan to accomplish each step of her goal and cautiously started to execute her ideas.

It had been childishly easy to work out side deals during group trading visits to native villages, given the advantage of her gift for languages. She'd begun making solo treks, slipping away from the others whenever she could, usually while Roxton or Veronica were off hunting. They were all accustomed to her wandering off to do a bit of 'treasure hunting', as Roxton had dubbed her explorations early on, but no one objected as long as she did her chores. Of course Challenger barely noticed her absence during the times when the others were away, so those were the days she'd accomplished the most.

The hardest thing had been finding enough time apart from John as their relationship developed and he wanted her with him more and more often. She'd feigned favoring certain foods, choosing animals or fruits that could only be found a good distance away, and as she'd expected, it hadn't taken much more than those subtly-dropped hints to have the indulgent nobleman haring off to hunt specifically for her 'favorites'. He'd never questioned her staying at the tree house to watch over Challenger instead of going along on the overnight hunting or gathering trips; everyone knew that he'd forget to eat or sleep if someone wasn't around to pull him away from his work. As long as she made it home in time to see that he had at least one meal a day, she'd been free to use her time anyway she chose. Marguerite had been gathering supplies and creating the basics to furnish the caves for well over a year.

The hideout had developed even better than she'd initially imagined. She'd built a "kitchen" in the main cavern near the cold water spring, carefully laying stones to form a secure fireplace. She'd gathered armfuls of dead wood every time she'd sneaked away to the caverns, and had sorted and stacked it neatly in the smallest offshoot from the main room. That little grotto also served as the 'outhouse' after her careful exploration of a crevasse in the floor had revealed a fast-flowing underground stream far below – completely separate from the three springs in the larger cavern, she'd confirmed – and she'd built a rudimentary commode over the small gap, with the woodpile as a privacy wall. As another facet of her preparations, she'd stored some food staples. Her intention had been to ensure that if the group needed to retreat here after losing a battle, or because they'd been forced from the tree house by some natural disaster, no one would need to venture outside for necessities until it was safe.

_At least that part of my hard work will come in handy for me now; I won't need to hunt or gather too much to supplement what I've brought along today._ _That'll help with lying low while John and Veronica are likely to be searching. Almost everything I need for a stay of a fortnight or more is already inside the caverns, so I'll only have to go outside for very brief periods._ _I'll certainly have more than enough rooms to pick from, too. Too bad there's not room service, or it'd be almost like staying at a grand hotel again, _she told herself as she marched along, keeping one eye on the sun's position so she could measure distance as well as time. She should be able to take a short break in another half hour and still reach the caverns with time to spare before lunch.

_Really, the only labor that will be wasted is the hours I devoted to furnishing and decorating their rooms._ Marguerite sighed heavily at the thought of those rooms, exactly the right number to dedicate one to each of her fellow adventurers. As she hiked down the now-familiar route, she admitted bitterly that there'd been very little practicality and far too much sentimentality involved in her efforts to offer a personal sanctuary to each of her so-called friends. _Too bad I bartered away so much of my treasure for items to customize each of those rooms. Maybe to replace my "bank", I should trade off some of the stuff I smuggled out of the tree house to store over here for the others._ _Later I might also be able to barter some of the goods for other things I need instead. I should probably leave the lanterns and the oil supply. I'll need them if I use the caverns enough… I may not intend to stay permanently, but who knows what the next months will hold for me._

_The biggest challenge will be clothes. I don't have much of a wardrobe left, at least until I get my hands on some new material. Until then I'll have to take extra care not to damage the clothing I still have. What I have jammed into my backpack with the other supplies is the least threadbare of the clothes I came to this bloody plateau with, but that's not saying a lot. Good thing I won't need to bother with the really messy chores for a couple weeks; less chance of snagging myself on anything that might do damage. _

_On the plus side_, Marguerite smiled at the irony as she climbed carefully over a deadfall_,_ _I can take back all the silk scarves I used on the walls of Veronica's chamber._ _It doesn't matter now whether she's liked them since I first unpacked them from my trunk; she won't ever see them, so she won't miss them._ _I can't believe I bothered to sacrifice good trade goods like those scarves – oh, and to think of those nerve-wracking forays into the storage room to retrieve some of Veronica's parents' things to keep at the cave, safe from attacks by apemen or lizardmen, fire, or Challenger's experiments – what a waste of my time and effort!_ She'd have to decide what to do about those things, lest her former friend and almost-sister have genuine cause to consider her a mere thief after all. She'd intended such touches to make the room homey for the blonde. She'd found ways to do the same for each of the others, but it was a moot point now.

The slim brunette grimaced, and once more berated herself for yielding to the foolish desire to be part of a family. _What a waste! I can't believe I spent _days_ agonizing over whether Challenger would like this, or Neddy-boy would be pleased with that, or if Veronica would enjoy such-and-such more than something else … And what I almost revealed about myself to please Roxton doesn't bear thinking of!_ No, she really couldn't let her thoughts drift in that direction. _Oh well, _she told herself, redirecting her focus_, if nothing else, I've proven that there's no need to be concerned about having lost any of my old skills._ Marguerite's eyes narrowed at the thought of all the times over the past year or so when she'd been on tenderhooks worrying that the others might discover what she was doing. But not a single person had noticed the absence of the carefully chosen and purloined items she'd taken from among their belongings, just as no one had remarked on her clandestine behavior any of the times she'd stolen away to work at the cave. _Then again, why would they bother to notice? _

Realizing she was beginning to brood again, the determined lady purposely lifted her chin and picked up her pace a bit. _Better to look to the future_, she reminded herself firmly, _and forget the past. I don't need to know my real name or where I come from, and I don't need Roxton or the others either. I can survive perfectly well on my own. With the things I've got at the cave, I'll have quite a nice supply of trade goods. If I'm careful with my resources, I can build up a good business and carve out a new life for myself. Some of the stuff I secreted away here will have little value to most of the plateau natives I'll probably be dealing with from now on, but there's plenty of valuable material, too. _

She catalogued what she'd have at hand, mentally going through one room at a time. There was paper, some of it sewn together into blank journals, and there were small pots of ink that she'd mixed up in Challenger's lab over the months she'd been planning all of this. She could sell or trade both the paper and the ink, and maybe even some of Ned's old books. _At least those penny dreadfuls may be of use in bartering for the supplies I'll need. There should be a market for the blank journals, too, and who knows? Maybe good old Neddy-boy will end up being a published author without even knowing it, if I should stumble across someone who might be interested in purchasing his old journals._

_It'll be tough to recoup my investment in George's lab, though. _ It had cost her a hefty portion of her treasure to purchase all the glass jars, tubing, and tools that would now be unused in the never-to-be occupied cave… _unless perhaps I use his things myself, for doing a few studies on my own. No, I won't have time. Although_, her eyes lit with speculation,_ if I could transport everything safely to the Norse village, they have some artisans who may be interested in trading for some of George's equipment – I couldn't get anywhere near as much as I've spent on them, but then it serves me right for bargaining for emotional quality instead of for real value. I certainly won't be making that mistake again any time soon,_ she vowed grimly.

Thought of in these terms, the biggest waste of all had been the time and – _not 'love'… perhaps… dedication? Yes, that's an acceptable term _– time and dedication poured into the living quarters for Lord Roxton. The grotto she'd selected for him had already included some formations on one wall that reminded her of his rifle rack; Marguerite's careful craftsmanship had resulted in an actual gun rack of living stone. _There'll be no profit for me in that_, she regretted as she wove her way through a stand of prickly pear. _And speaking of unprofitable… that brings me back to that bloody wall again_.

The more time and care she'd invested in the caverns, the more convinced she'd been that the odds were in her favor: she could trust John with the truth about herself. She scowled as she clambered over a mass of tumbled rocks. It was clearly ridiculous now, but anything had seemed possible when she'd been at work in the underground residence, even the miracle of never losing his unconditional love. The big question had been how to tell him the whole truth about her past. So when inspiration had struck, she'd thrown caution to the winds and etched her life's story onto one wall of his room, using simple line drawings. _It isn't Michelangelo, but it captures my life pretty honestly, right up through these last few months. Callum's arrival, the loss of the Ouroboros, finding out we were all connected by the iridium, getting trapped in that bloody cave…_

In the horrid days immediately after her secret reason for financing Challenger's expedition had been revealed, she'd almost given up on finishing the second home, sure that everything was over. But once John's initial anger had passed, he'd been so supportive, so careful and tender with her… He'd promised that her secrets would be safe with him, and his devotion had given her such hope… And then finding out he'd been the one to give Parsifal the credibility to do her most important war work, and, topping it all off, their experiences trapped in that cave… She'd included these, and all the incidents since, to the wall. It had been finished; she'd been ready to entrust her entire life to him.

If she'd carried through her plans, she would've brought Roxton to the caverns first, just the two of them, and shown him the carvings. Then, when she presented the cavern to everyone else, it would've been up to him to decide whether to show the wall to the others or just cover it over with a tapestry secured for that purpose.

_There would've been no more secrets between us once he saw that wall._ Well, she hadn't included any classified details about her time as Parsifal, of course, but as for the rest of her life, nothing appreciable had been left unrevealed. She'd filled hours with silly daydreams about explaining each segment of her "life wall" when the time came to entrust it to the man who had vowed his eternal love and had shown his commitment in so many ways almost daily during the last several years. _I was actually looking forward to telling him everything! I can't believe I convinced myself that that a man of John's caliber could ever accept who I was, who I am, what I've done… That's the one good thing that's come of finding that baby. Until she came along, I was on the verge of letting all his fine words and promises blind me to reality. I indulged in schoolgirl fantasies of happy-ever-after, and I ignored all the lessons I've learned over the years. I never should have given in to the idealism that permeates the tree house. But now I'm finally thinking straight again, remembering who I am, remembering the facts of life. _

_The idea of true love is beautiful, but it's only an illusion for people like me. I knew long ago that it wasn't in the cards for my life. _As she trudged nearer her destination she decided that she should add one more segment to the wall. _Not that anyone else will ever see it now, but it might be cathartic to vent the way I'm feeling. If I had drawn it on with chalk instead of etching the whole bloody thing into the stone, I could simply wash it off the wall as a symbolic gesture. _

_Symbolic gestures. Hmmm… did I include all the ingredients for gun powder in George's cavern lab?_ A frown furrowed her brow as she reviewed the canisters there, and then she grinned. _Yes, it's all there! I could blow the whole place sky high! _ She allowed herself to dwell for a moment on the massive explosion she could create, but then shrugged off the tempting idea. _Someone would be sure to notice that much noise. Just my luck it would be Lord-bloody-Roxton. Well, if I can't blow it up, I'll have to settle for my first idea. I'll get the whole thing out of my system by adding a bit about the baby and leaving the tree house. Once it's complete, I can cover it up and get on with the rest of my life, without ever again indulging these ridiculously maudlin emotions._

Startled by the sound of a pterodactyl swooping down on prey somewhere nearby, Marguerite paused to take note of her surroundings. _I'm letting my mind drift too much. Another quarter hour's walk will put me at the stream where I can refill my canteen. It won't be far to the cavern from there._ She found that she wasn't really that eager to arrive. It would be difficult to maintain any equanimity living there, amidst constant reminders of her futile hope to be part of a family. No, it would be almost as painful to stay there for too long as it would have been to continue living at the tree house. But it would serve well as a temporary stopping place while she made plans to go elsewhere, further from the territory where she might run into one or more of her former comrades. And the cavern would still be here as a bolt hole if she should venture back in this direction in the future.

_There's plenty of space in this mystical lost world. We've regularly come across whole areas of land and entire civilizations that Veronica has never heard of before, despite living here all her life. It should be easy to distance myself from the others, to find a place where I can settle down with reasonable certainty that I can live out my life without crossing their paths again._

John, Veronica, Ned, and even George had cared more for her than anyone else in all her life, even if the latest revelation about her had been too much for them. She had no intention of forgetting what she'd learned while with them. She didn't have to go completely back to being the Black Widow or some version of Parsifal. _I want to be more than that; John's taught me so much, shown me so many possibilities. He saw potential in me that no one else ever did, except Arthur Summerlee. I like the person John thought I was, and I don't want to give up on being that woman or on having that life, not entirely._ _If John is right – and he usually is, _she reflected irritably_ – there are people out there who can be trusted, at least with some things._ After all, her past only mattered if she allowed herself to get too attached, too intimate. If she sought a village far off on the furthest edge of the plateau, or some secluded tribe in the depths of the jungle, she could offer her expertise as a seamstress or a jeweler and be a valuable member of a community. _ I wouldn't have to be so wholly alone. It might be possible to have friends, even if I'll never have family, provided I can manage to separate my past from my future._

_It's possible. At least I won't have to worry about falling for fairytales again; I've learned my lesson for good. It's an enticing idea, and believing in happily-ever-after felt good. Scary, but… I never felt more alive._ It had been a vibrant, breathtaking, entrancing visit through the Looking Glass into a world where people knew what it was to have a childhood, a family, an identity, a place where they belonged. _But that world isn't for me. I should've known that I'd never belong in such a world. It's not their fault, John and the others. I don't deserve it, and I simply don't fit in._ The pain of seeing the scorn and disgust in the eyes of the four people she'd called "family" left her with more heartache than she knew what to do with – _quite an admission for someone who's been through all that I have. I didn't think anything could feel this… this…_ There wasn't even a word for it. But she could never risk feeling like this again.

It would be enough to be accepted into a community. _I'll know better next time; I'll take care not to allow myself to drift into anything resembling a family._ Thanks to the last four years, Marguerite was fairly certain she could become a valuable asset to a community without shutting herself off from friendship. That would be a far cry better than anything she'd experienced beyond the plateau.

At least the baby coming into their lives now had saved her from deeper heartbreak down the road. _If not for the brat I might've openly committed myself to Roxton by showing him that wall – which would have left him no choice but to do the honorable thing and publically commit to me in return. Then it would've been too late; he'd have been tied to me by his own code, and he would've stayed in spite of the disgust for me that would have grown and come between us. He'd have tried to hide it, of course, but John is no deceiver. I would have seen it in those wonderful dark green eyes._ Marguerite shuddered as she remembered the contempt she'd witnessed in his expression when he'd issued his condemnation of her for her inability to interact with the child.

She was very thankful indeed that this had happened now; because of all of this, she'd never have to witness that look again, and she'd never cause him further grief. The temporary pain they would each experience because of their separation was preferable to the alternative of watching his disillusionment increase over time. Sooner or later, who she'd been and what she'd done would have destroyed even his attraction to her, let alone any love he might still harbor. _There are simply some things that cannot be forgiven or forgotten, even in a mere lover. At least with me gone he can keep his remaining illusions about me. _

John Roxton was the most generous and true-hearted man she'd ever met, bar none, and Marguerite knew there would never be anyone else for her. She loved him beyond anything she'd ever imagined, but she couldn't be anywhere near where she might see that expression of loathing and disapproval on his handsome face again. She couldn't bear to witness his admiration for her wither and die.

He'd said she deserved better than she allowed herself, but he hadn't know then what he knew now – and he had no idea of the magnitude of the things about her that he still didn't know. _I should never have allowed myself to yield to him that day in the cave, to give him the encouragement of admitting that I loved him. It will be harder on both of us now… But at least I'll have the memories of that one time when the past didn't matter and I was loved by a man who truly believed in me. And eventually he'll realize my leaving was for the best, and he'll move on._

Marguerite stumbled and stood still for a long moment, stunned by the direction of her own thoughts. Her stomach churned violently at the very idea of John with anyone other than herself. But it made sense. With her out of his life, it was inevitable that he would eventually find someone else to love, someone fit for the position of Lady Roxton, someone worthy of a man like Lord John Roxton. _He has so much love to give, and John deserves to be loved, to be happy, even if it's not with me. Actually, he should be happier than it's possible for him to be with me. He'll find a real lady, someone who'll be a good mother to his children and a good wife, someone who'll make his life comfortable, someone who will make him proud. Those are good things. _She forced herself to start walking again, one foot before the other, moving numbly forward.

She walked into a tree and blinked, then swore at herself. _Get it together, Marguerite, _she scolded. _You'll never survive like this! _Survival. She clung to the thought. _Surviving is the one thing at which I excel. And I'm certainly far better equipped for it now than I was four years ago. There's no such thing as mere coincidence; perhaps my time with John and the others was meant to give me the new skills that will enable me to live out my life here, skills like… this…_

She'd just realized that she'd kicked leaves over the boot prints she'd left to the base of the tree, concealing her path without conscious thought. Marguerite smiled to herself. Even half-dazed, she'd kept her trail to a minimum by drawing on everything she'd ever seen Roxton and Veronica do in the jungle. They probably didn't suspect it yet, but as they tried to find her they'd soon realize that she'd used her time with them to learn the lore necessary to stay alive in the outdoors. _Provided I don't get careless, it won't be too long before it dawns on John and Veronica that I'll be all right on my own. Then they can stop looking with clear consciences._

For all their sakes, she had to go to ground until they had to give up searching and get back to their lives. She couldn't let them succeed in finding her. _They'll feel duty-bound to look for a while; they must, because they've only just begun to realize that I'm not fit to be a member of a family. But it would only be a matter of time before my presence there would cause further problems._ _It's far better that they not locate me, even if they do worry at first._

She was almost there now; time to focus on the next priorities. None of her old goals were viable now. _I'll use these next couple weeks to develop a new plan for my life, a way to live that won't betray any of the things I've learned from John and the others. By keeping their code of conduct, I can honor them even if my past prevents me from being with them any longer._ She'd draw on what she'd learned and she'd avoid repeating her past mistakes; she could build a good life and, with time, she would establish new friendships. _Their lives will be better off without my involvement, and mine will be the better for having known and lived among them._ The theory didn't relieve her current angst, but she'd gone most of her life without love before coming here, and she knew she could do it again.

Marguerite reached the cave just after midday. The berry grove stood undisturbed, yet she exercised caution as she moved into the thickest patch of growth and settled down to wait, watching for any sign that she'd been followed or that she was being watched. Only when she was positive that it was safe did she slip behind the right berry bush and down the inclined entrance. She paused to strike a match, and used its tiny flame to guide her across the neatly furnished main cavern to the room she'd chosen for herself – the one with the discreet back door, of course.

This room alone, of all the underground space, had almost no furniture or décor to speak of. She'd been too busy with her ideas for pleasing the others to take the time for more yet. _But that's for the best since I won't be using it too long anyway._

She shrugged the pack from her weary shoulders, dropped it to the floor, and stretched out on the bed without bothering to remove her duster or her boots, exhausted both mentally and physically after the strain of the last fortnight, the chore-filled previous night and last night's lengthy preparations, and the fast-paced hike to the cave.

Naturally, much as she needed the rest, sleep refused to come. Her mind was too busy, too full of everything that had happened, too full of what must happen next.

Despite the note she'd left, she had no doubt that they _would_ come looking for her, especially John. Both he and Veronica were too good at what they did for her relax her vigilance purely because the explorers hadn't been back in this area since last year. She couldn't count on the fact that the swamp was between them, or the fact that there was no reason for them to suspect that she'd come this way. She'd have to be very careful while she waited and prepared to move further away.

If they were ever to spot her, they would do their utmost to haul her back home. They'd probably scold her all the way back for disappearing like this, causing everyone so much extra work and worry. She may have lost their respect, but Veronica wouldn't want to leave her out here alone any more than John would. And John would still consider it his duty to look after her, as he had from the first day the Challenger Expedition had set out from England.

_He should have stuck with his first instinct and thrown me to the wolves for the good of the group_, she smiled without humor as she recalled that exchange so soon after their arrival at Veronica's home. _It might have been better for both of us if he hadn't been too decent to do it._ _Silly softhearted man that he is, he went right on looking after me even though he believed me to be -_

_No, I won't go there again. No, no, and definitely, no!_

Determinedly, she rose from the bed and began to pace. _I have to walk this off. I cannot mire myself in regrets or maudlin emotions. If I'm not going to sleep, I should set my mind on the things that have to be done tomorrow._ She'd need to organize proper supplies for the long journey around the outskirts of the plateau in search of her new community. As a backup, she would leave behind some of her raw gems and all but one piece of her jewelry. The gems she might need to bargain with, and there was no way she could part with the locket from her parents, regardless of the fact that there was no hope of ever finding them now.

_No!_ Suddenly the magnitude of all she was losing was overwhelming again. No name, no family, no fortune, nothing at all to offer even a semblance of security or a future worth anticipating! _I will not cry! I will not! Someone will hear -_

The abrupt realization that there was no one near enough to be disturbed by her tears this time - and probably never would be again - was the final straw. She dropped to the floor and adopted her usual position for these dreaded moments of weakness when tears insisted on coming: arms wrapped around her knees, shoulders hunched against the unwelcoming world, face buried against her drawn-up knees.

Unable to reason through or hold back the depth of her sorrow, she huddled on the cold stone floor and sobbed out her grief until she'd finally cried herself to sleep.

xxxxx

Roxton crouched behind a tree, devouring his prey with hungry eyes. It had taken nine long days to find her - not that it had been his skill that led him to her. As he'd feared, spotting her had been sheer dumb luck. He could so easily have missed her if fate hadn't smiled on him so generously!

The British nobleman couldn't restrain his smile of satisfaction as he watched from his hidden vantage point midway up the hillside, but downwind of where Marguerite moved randomly through a patch of berry bushes. She was picking the ripe red berries, occasionally wriggling between boughs to reach the further side of the large, leafy bushes. She'd disappear for a few moments, and then reappear further down among the shrubs, still picking the ripest of the succulent berries and dropping them into her hat.

Each time she vanished, his heart seized and he could barely breathe again until she was back where he could feast on the sight of her. He kept telling himself to relax, willing himself to be patient until she moved on again. _I may have found her – thank the Lord! – but that's the easy part of my mission. If I simply announce my presence, odds are strongly against her going back with me – at least willingly. She has a right to be angry at all of us, especially me, given the way I failed her. I can't expect her to just forgive and forget, not while my scurrilous accusations are still fresh in her mind. _He wanted her to be safe and well, but after her housemates' insulting attack on her character it was quite possible that she'd refuse to return solely out of stubborn pride.

_Unless she can't make it on her own, no apology is going to be sufficient to bring her back to us. Even if she doesn't have everything she needs, she'll claim she's doing fine without us. The problem is, she might be right to say she doesn't need us. She isn't carrying much today, and she wouldn't leave her things somewhere unsafe, so she must have found someplace or someone she trusts. If she's landed on her feet by finding shelter with some other group, then there's no way she'll come back with me. But if she's holed up in a hovel and she's miserable and all alone, I've better than even odds of convincing her to forgive me and come back home where it's safer and she can be more comfortable. _

The hunter scowled as he considered the probabilities. Anything was possible with Marguerite, yet he couldn't see her having formed new alliances in such a short period of time. Even if she had, it wasn't likely that she'd trust strangers enough to leave her belongings with them. Nor would she be off on her own like this if she'd allied herself with someone new. So far, appearances were in his favor. But he couldn't afford to be wrong when he approached her. _I'm only going to have one shot at this. I have to be patient and wait for the right moment. Once I see where she's left her things, confirm whether she's alone or not, then I'll know whether it's safe to approach her immediately or if I'll have to come up with a different strategy. Can't be much longer now; it'll be night soon, and she'll have to be back to her campsite before then. Besides, her hat can't possibly hold many more berries - _

Roxton stiffened in alarm as he realized that she hadn't reappeared this time. _She's been out of sight too long!_ _Why did I let her drift so far across the hillside without moving closer to her?_ He couldn't worry about whether she might spot him now, or hesitate over whether he might say something that drove her further away instead of convincing her to come back. He swore under his breath and rose to his full height so he could scan over the tops of the scattered bushes, looking for any hint of her dark hair or her blue blouse amidst the greenery. _Blast! Nothing!_

_Did I make some noise I didn't notice? Or is it only that she's still aware she's being followed, so she pretended to be doing that carefree berry picking to lull a watcher into carelessness until she could slip away? If I've spooked her somehow, she'll run again! Calling out for her is useless; she won't talk to me unless she has no choice. I have to figure out where she went before it gets dark, or I might lose her again!_ He swiftly skirted the perimeter of the berry patch, searching for sign that Marguerite might have moved off the hillside.

After nine gut-wrenching days of searching, it had considerably lightened his heart to stumble across his missing love this afternoon. Destiny was the only possible explanation for the way he'd spotted her on the riverbank. He hadn't intended to stop there, but a gust of wind had lifted his hat clean off his head. He'd chased it, of course, until it tumbled into the tangled roots of a sprawling casaba tree and lodged under a gnarled root. Down on his knees to retrieve it, he'd looked up and frozen at what he'd seen through the nearby undergrowth.

There, in his direct line of sight, had been the object of his search!

Less than thirty feet away, Marguerite had been poised barefoot in the gently-flowing water at the river's edge, clad in her customary khaki skirt and a blue silk blouse, her thick dark curls braided into a semi-manageable coil beneath her hat. Her arm was cocked ready for loosing the makeshift spear she held, and her clear green eyes had been focused intently downward as she scanned for fish around her shapely ankles.

Roxton had caught his breath, afraid that if he moved she might vanish. He couldn't take his gaze off her, studying every detail as if he hadn't seen her for nine months instead of only nine days. She looked gorgeous, regardless of the dark circles beneath her eyes. To his immense relief, his wild worries and restless nightmares had not been harbingers of her death, as he'd feared; she was alive, safe and, of all things, fishing! Marguerite! Who'd have thought she'd be doing that when he found her?

He'd spared an approving glance for the spear. She'd cut a pole and lashed her knife to one end to create the temporary tool. Roxton had taught her to fish like this one day last year - actually, he'd initially thought that the lessons had taken several days. She'd had inexplicable difficulty coordinating the thrusting motion with accurate aim. He'd spent many pleasurable minutes on successive days relishing the feel of her lithe body encircled within his arms as he coached her through the movements to center her aim, before he'd finally caught a glimpse of her dancing eyes and realized that the minx was deliberately missing her targets so she could prolong the very intimacy he'd been treasuring.

Marguerite's green-gray eyes had sparkled with merriment when he'd good-naturedly laughed at himself for being so easily bamboozled. Then she'd confessed that she hadn't truly needed his help since the first day's lesson, and he'd acted angry and dunked her in the river. Not that he'd really minded, of course, but she was so rarely in a playful mood that he'd wanted it to continue. The fishing "lesson" had ended up as a delightful splash-fest, one of his favorite memories of precious time with his lady. They'd fished together often since then, and they'd never failed to tease one another about the fun they'd had while he was teaching her to fish.

Sprawled in his hidden position beneath the shrubs earlier today, he'd wished he was at her side in that stream, joking with her instead of hovering and holding his breath in sheer awe at her presence. To his proud delight, she speared a fish on her first try with one smooth and graceful movement that proved her aptitude. A satisfied smile had played about her lips while she'd waded out of the stream and removed her nice-sized catch from the spear.

It would have been heaven to run to her, to sweep her into his arms and kiss her into breathless submission! He wanted her home at the tree house, surrounded by their friends and George's electric fence. But since neither physical force nor passion would convince Marguerite to stay at there if she was determined to leave – not to mention the fact that he'd half-suspected she might run him through with that spear if she laid eyes on him before he could beg her forgiveness – he'd resolved to stalk her patiently until the propitious time, for her sake… for his sake.

Proving he was right to be cautious, Marguerite had suddenly stilled. She'd turned slowly, her hand hovering over her holster, her alert gaze searching the surrounding forest. He'd known right away that she had felt the presence of a watcher.

The hunter had often experienced the same, all his senses ultra-alert when he was out alone or when he was on point and responsible for the safety of the others. His auditory and olfactory abilities invariably heightened to particularly sensitive levels at such crucial times. He'd learned over the years that this was a general rule of thumb for most of the outdoorsmen he'd traveled with, and also for people who'd faced intense danger for a prolonged period of time. Marguerite qualified on both counts – and she had a particular sixth sense about being watched by men; he'd seen it time and again since meeting her. He'd considered it part and parcel with her keen instinct for self-preservation, since a woman alone was always vulnerable to men. And since she was as aware of his regard as of any other man's, he'd more than half expected her to react to his presence sooner or later.

In fact, Roxton would have worried if she _hadn't_ been sensitive to her environment while out alone, even his non-threatening gaze. So seeing her guardedness was a two-edged sword: while it was good to know she wasn't being careless, he'd have to be doubly careful not to reveal his position until he was ready. So, determined to stay hidden until he had sufficient leverage to improve his chances of talking her into coming home – and had worked up the courage to brave her possible rejection – he'd held still, trusting to the foliage to conceal him.

After a careful perusal of her surroundings yielded nothing out of the ordinary, his lady had detached her knife from the temporary spear, wiped and sheathed her blade, snapped the pole into uneven pieces and tossed them in separate directions – he'd mentally applauded this move, which should hide the creation of the pole from any trackers – looped a leather strip through a gill and tied the fish to her belt, scooped her boots from the riverbank, and started away.

It hadn't taken long to see that she was still concerned about being followed. She'd used every trick the hunters had ever shown her for keeping her trail to a minimum – each time with a practiced ease that earned his further approval. He'd ruefully chided himself for not guessing that she'd been paying more attention during the past few years than he'd suspected. She'd even come close to catching sight of him several times when she stopped unpredictably, spinning to scan her back trail. He took a grim satisfaction in her continued awareness of his presence. There was no way for her to know whether he was friend or foe, and he hadn't liked worrying her, but on the other hand the scare of knowing she was being stalked might be added impetus for her to agree to come home.

When the dark-haired beauty had detoured to this hillside and begun gathering the fruit, Roxton had hunkered down to wait, rifle across his knees, senses attuned to the perimeter for other predators even as his dark green gaze clung to her. Somehow, though, he'd underestimated Marguerite's wiliness. It was now clear that rather than idly harvesting berries, she'd been planning a way to lull any watcher so she could escape pursuit.

As he finished a complete circuit of the grove without seeing anything to indicate which direction she'd gone, he grimly reminded himself that it was Parsifal he was dealing with here, a woman whose observation and self-defense skills had been honed by years of wartime intelligence work, and heaven only knew what else she'd done before that.

_After the lack of tracks to follow when she left the tree house, I should have been more careful. How can she have vanished without a trace twice in less than ten days! Has she always been this good at evading pursuit, or am I missing something? Maybe she's still on the hillside. Maybe she simply sat down to hide, to flush her pursuer from concealment._ If that were the case, she was probably having herself a good chuckle at his expense right now from the midst of one of those little groupings of bushes she'd been ducking in and out of so gracefully. _But no, that can't be it. If she was still here_, he frowned to himself_, she'd have stood up by now to tell me off, rather than staying hidden. She'd know I'm bound to find her if she's hiding in here. Since she hasn't shown herself, I should probably assume she's snuck off somehow. I should start canvassing for sign further out._

He hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the graying sky. _Then again, it's not safe to assume anything when it concerns Marguerite. I'd best take the time to make certain. I can always pick up her trail at first light if necessary, _he decided, ignoring the way his stomach dropped at the thought. The longer she was out of his sight, the greater the odds that he'd lose her trail.

Roxton moved swiftly across the hillside, mindful of losing the light, and swept the berry bushes with the butt of his rifle to confirm that she wasn't simply sitting down amidst the leafy branches.

The only thing he found was a few faint older traces on the ground that told him she'd been at this berry patch before. It made sense, since this was a plentiful source of food that would be easy to harvest. It also made it more likely that if she'd stopped to pick berries here over the last few days, then her current home had to be within easy distance of this hillside. She must've been taking care to erase her trail from this point on, but his tracking skills and years of experience should enable him to make a fair estimate of where she could go from here. The sun was nearly down, and it would soon be too dark to see anything. He might catch a glimpse of her campfire then. Meanwhile, he wasn't going to leave the hillside until he was positive she wasn't lying in watch, laughing up her pretty sleeve at making him run in circles.

Heartened by his conclusion that she couldn't be far off, he circled the entire sprawling berry patch again, moving with particular care on the sharp incline and paying meticulous attention to the densest of the bushes. He had to be missing something. A final circuit of the hillside looking for miniscule disturbances amidst the pebbles, fallen leaves, turned rocks, or bent and broken branches still turned up nothing before it was too dark to see details any longer.

_Marguerite's developed some very fine wood lore_, he acknowledged wryly to himself as he stopped and squatted down in the shelter of a small stand of thicker trees to study the surrounding forest for any sign of a campfire. _But she wasn't out of my sight for very long, and since there were no tracks leaving the hillside, the most logical conclusion is that somehow, somewhere, she must still be in this berry patch. _He wiped his brow, resettled his hat on his head, rested his rifle across his knees again, and waited. _Sooner or later, a glimpse of firelight, some tiny noise, or an incautious movement will reveal her location._

But night fully descended on the plateau without a single hint as to her whereabouts. Anxiously, he rose to his feet. He crossed and re-crossed the slope three times, clinging to hope even though he knew he wasn't likely to flush her out now, when he hadn't had any success in the twilight. He stalked around the perimeter again, pausing to study the surrounding forest from various positions, but still saw no trace of a campfire. _Of all the rotten luck!_ _I'll have to camp and wait until morning now to try to pick up her trail again._

It was at that very moment that fate intervened for the second time that day. He caught a glimpse of light, just a minuscule flicker glimmering through a berry bush that grew from one of the steepest places along the hillside.

If the night had been starlit, he wouldn't have noticed it. But it was overcast, so the sky was nearly pitch black. Without the stars or the moon to shed any light over the Plateau, the faint gleam from behind the shrub drew Roxton's trained eye like a beacon. If he'd been one step to the right, one to the left, or even a few inches back or forward than his current position, the bush's boughs would have hidden it from sight. He knew, because he kept his eye trained on that speck of light and shuffled carefully in each direction, trying to keep a bead on it. Only from that one angle could it be seen.

Fixing its position firmly in his mind's eye, he crept toward it, heart pounding as the glint vanished from view when he moved. Was there really something there? Could it be -?

When he reached the shrub in question, he cautiously parted the branches, holding his breath, and the flicker of light was there again, much larger and brighter than before, enough so that he could make out the downward slope through an opening.

_A cave! Of course! Marguerite and caves! I should have guessed sooner!_

He eased through the branches, ducked into the opening, and crept cautiously down into the cavern, slowing as the slope evened out and the passage widened. He didn't need a torch; the small fire burning in the grotto provided enough illumination that he was in no danger of stumbling into anything.

The cavern wasn't the largest he'd seen on the Plateau, but it opened up nicely under the hillside, and had a relatively level floor now that he was in the main section. The hunter warily maintained his guard as he scanned Marguerite's shelter. He shook his head in amazement as he spotted the spring bubbling in its natural basin not far from the neatly built brick enclosure where the fire quietly crackled. _A hidden entrance and a source of fresh water! Could this place be more perfect? And what's that? Two more springs? _ Yes, there were two more pools on the other end of the cavern, hot springs, to judge by the vapors and the warmth radiating from that area of the otherwise-cool interior – that and the fact that she'd rigged a net over one to steam the fish she'd caught that were half a dozen screens at uneven intervals along the shadowed back wall of the chamber, and there was a dark indentation to the right side that might be a smaller offshoot.

_Where's Marguerite? Must be behind one of those screens, but I don't hear any movement. Sleeping, perhaps? It's late, and she was out in the sun and the fresh air for quite a while. I'd best take advantage of whatever time I have before she realizes I'm here._ He stepped softly as he moved deeper into the cavern, now taking in specific details about the setup.

His brow furrowed as he neared the plentiful pottery stored on bamboo shelves between the fireplace and the first spring. A quick check of the jars' contents revealed dried berries, roots, greens, other kinds of fruit, and even some dried raptor meat. _This is bad; she has everything she might need here! Why should she bother to come home with me?_ Then a darker thought struck him.

_She couldn't have put all this together on the spur of the moment. It had to have been ready before she arrived._ Roxton grimaced. _Is it possible that George was right when he speculated that Marguerite planned her departure beforehand, maybe even arranged for bearers to move her trunk?_ _Or maybe she really has joined up with another group that she met on one of those solo trading jaunts she's made in the last year. _He glanced sharply at the sturdy-looking table surrounded by six chairs. _Perhaps she's been thinking of leaving us for some time now, and the situation with Maria simply tipped the scales in her decision to leave. That could be what she meant in her note when she wrote, _"_It is now more profitable for me to move on without the rest of you."_ He'd wondered about that sentence over these interminably long days of searching for her. Maybe the owners of these extra five chairs were offering the mercenary brunette something specific that she couldn't gain from staying with the tree house group.

_I'll have to watch out for those other five people. They won't know me from Adam, and won't take kindly to a stranger entering their home uninvited. What is it that they've offered her, I wonder?_ _She might at least have had the courtesy of telling us the truth instead of leaving us all feeling so guilty about driving her away! _ He moved further in, still balefully eyeing those incriminating chairs, but before his indignation over such inconsiderate behavior could take firm root in his mind, he had edged over to that offshoot and found himself staring into a combination "wood shed" and "outhouse".

He barely took note of the privy, because the instant he saw the accumulated fuel stacked there, he knew his hypothesis had to be wrong. No man had stocked this pile of kindling and logs. Even if she'd used native services to establish this place, at least two-thirds of this wood would be larger, axe-split logs. But these pieces were all deadfall and underbrush, material that could be gathered quickly and quietly by a woman alone in a dangerous jungle, a woman with no one to watch her back while she was chopping or carrying proper firewood. Everything was broken into manageable lengths and neatly stacked, and there was enough to last several weeks with judicious use, but not a single piece was… man-sized, for lack of a better word.

More telling than the type of firewood was the collection of tools hanging on the wall pegs beside the stockpile. He stepped closer and picked up a hammer, nodding in resignation as he studied the tool's workmanship. _Mine._ To the best of his recollection, it had disappeared right after he'd fixed the handle last year, and he'd assumed apemen or monkeys had run off with it. _And that's our rasp, our awl – almost every one of these is one of the tools that have disappeared from our shed or the compound! _Challenger had bemoaned mislaying that set of vise grips last year, and Veronica had searched almost six months ago for that hand saw, turning the tree house and the storage shed upside down and inside out before she'd given up and asked Roxton and Challenger to make another one like it, light-weight enough for her to use. _Of course that means it's light enough for Marguerite to use, too, but I never thought to ask her if she'd seen it – I'd never have imagined she'd be interested in taking a saw, of all things! Nor any of these other tools, either!_

Roxton shouldered his rifle and stepped back, suddenly positive that Marguerite wasn't living here with anyone else, despite the evidence of the multiple chairs. If she'd joined an established group, she wouldn't have needed to take these tools from the tree house… _and she wouldn't have been out fishing alone today, either, come to that_.

Unfortunately, finding these tools here meant there was a good chance that at least one part of George's theory was correct; Marguerite must have been planning to leave them for a long time. He swore under his breath. _Based on when these tools started going missing, _s_he must've been working in this cavern since right after we were imprisoned together by Edgar Gray! How is it possible that she could plan to leave us ever since back then, with all that's happened? Wouldn't we have noticed? It can't be… can it?_

He whirled to study the furniture again, his stomach knotted in bewildered grief, searching for a reason to deny the possibility that she'd been stringing them all along until she was ready to leave. _No, this couldn't have been done in the last nine days. It must have taken Marguerite months to finish all of this. _ How had she managed to sneak away and to deceive her friends about where she was going often enough to do this? _If she's been planning to leave for that long, why did she bother with me all those times we spent together, flirting or even just talking? What about what happened in that cave while we were trapped? Was she merely amusing herself by toying with my emotions until she was ready to go? It can't all have been a lie, can it? The way she seemed to be right on the verge of admitting she had deeper feelings for me – Adrianne and Maple White, the pirates, that blasted scorpion that interrupted our most serious discussion until then – Askwith! Locke! I was actually jealous over bloody Jack the Ripper! I thought it heartwarming when she stood at my side to face Pierson Rice! Everything – the cuddling when the icemen's meteor crashed on the Plateau – Callum and her hesitation to take that bloody Ouroboros in hand when she had the chance! She didn't have to admit she was Parsifal when Drummond was going to shoot me! What was all that about if she was planning all along to leave the tree house, to leave me? Why did she pretend she was content with us, with me?_

More of her blasted secrets and game playing, no doubt! She must have been quite amused, especially at having made such a fool of Lord John Roxton!

_Well, she's made her move. She's living here now, in this place that she's obviously been preparing. What is it about this cavern that made her choose this place? If I can judge by the woodpile – and it's a solid, undeniable bit of evidence – she didn't leave us in favor of another man. Could she have joined a group of women? Amazons? They wouldn't want to live in a cave, and she didn't get along with them anyway. _Roxton laid his hat on the table, shrugged off his rucksack and set it down on a chair, and scowled around the cavern.

_She never does anything without a reason. She wouldn't give up the comforts of the tree house without gaining something in return. Hmm… Those screens must be set there for a reason. Treasure. That's got to be it. This must be some kind of mine she's stumbled on. There must be some pretty spectacular gems behind one or more of those screens for her to be willing to dump us and live underground like this. It's the only reason she willingly enters caves these days._

Determined to see for himself exactly what sort of treasure she valued so much that Marguerite had deliberately deceived and then abandoned four people who had offered her not only their friendship but their love, Roxton strode to the nearest screen and jerked it aside.

He was surprised to see a short passage. He could vaguely make out what looked like another cave at the other end, but it was too dark to see any detail. _Why screen off another cave? I don't feel any draft, so it's doubtful there's another exit through here. Are these screens meant to serve as defensive cover in case she's discovered here?_ He shook his head, because the bamboo screens weren't sturdy enough to provide effective cover. No, the best guess was still that she had some kind of mining operation going on down here. It didn't really matter what crazy reason she might have for the placement of the screens; what was important was what he'd find behind them.

_If the rest of these screens cover entrances to other caves, like this one does, she could have an entire series of mines down here; gold, or perhaps diamonds... Or perhaps the loot she's been hiding around the house was merely the tip of the iceberg, and she's really been storing the bulk of her collected treasure here all along. Whatever she's up to, I'm going to get to the bottom of it once and for all. _Gritting his teeth, Roxton reached for the lantern hanging just inside the passageway. He had to know exactly what she'd chosen rather than accepting his love. He raised the lantern's glass, struck a match from his belt pouch and lit the already-prepared wick, then carefully settled the glass back into place.

A moment more he hesitated, half-afraid of what he'd find, debating with himself about whether he really needed to know, or whether he should just get out while he could. _After all, what difference will it make to know? She obviously prefers to have whatever's in there instead of being with me. I've been a fool to think Marguerite Krux will ever love me in return. Even though I stuck by her through the loss of her precious Ouroboros, and promised that her secrets would be safe with me whenever she's ready - I couldn't make it clearer than that, could I? – and then proved it by keeping mum about what we found in that cave when we were trapped. But she still hasn't chosen to confide in me. I ought to take the hint and leave her to her own devices. I should go now, before she appears and mocks me for following her when it's obvious she wants nothing more to do with the Challenger Expedition … nothing more to do with me… at least not since we found Maria. _

He glanced down the row of screens; from where he now stood he could see that there were indeed openings behind each screen… and down there he could see another flickering light. He watched the light until he could confirm that it wasn't coming closer or going farther, but was actually stationary. _She must have her bedroll through there, since there's no sign of either it or her trunk out here._ He scowled at the thought that she was most likely asleep already, while he was stuck here, miles from the tree house in search of her, only to discover that once again she'd been lying to them all. His eyes narrowed, and he turned toward the darkened passage again. _No way am I going to run off like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs – I'm going to expose exactly what she's been up to, and then face her with the truth. She isn't getting away with it this time!_

Roxton's brisk stride carried him through the short tunnel and into the middle of a smaller grotto before he stumbled to a halt, eyes widening in blank disbelief at what was revealed by the light of the raised lantern.

He'd been right that there was no other exit from this smaller area … but it wasn't a mine, or a storage room for more of Marguerite's treasure.

He blinked, frowned, looked around again, and then walked slowly back through the passage to the main room. He stood there blankly. Then, questioning his own sanity – _it wasn't really a bedroom for Malone, was it?_ – he whirled and dashed back into the smaller cavern.

He hadn't been imagining things. There could be no doubt that this was furnished and decorated for their American comrade. _It's a bloody bedroom for Neddy-boy! _

Returning to the main cavern again, a brief visit down the dark passage beyond each consecutive screen revealed to the bemused aristocrat that the four other chambers appeared to be bedrooms, too. Although the sizes varied to some degree, each chamber proved to be customized living quarters… one for Ned, one for Veronica, - one for Arthur Summerlee? - one for himself, and one for George.

The perplexed hunter paused outside the final screened doorway and tried to unscramble the contradictory evidence. Six chairs. Six bedrooms, if that last one proved to be Marguerite's boudoir. Enough provisions to house and feed half a dozen people for at least a couple weeks. But he couldn't think of a logical reason to explain why these underground rooms had so clearly been prepared for the occupants of the tree house, not when she'd up and left them without ever saying a word about the existence of this cavern. _What the devil is going on here?_ _Why has she never mentioned this place? None of this makes a lick of sense. _He scratched the back of his head, trying in vain to figure out what could possibly have motivated her to do this, to put in all this work, and yet never mention it to anyone.

_Well, there's nothing for it but to ask Marguerite and hope she gives me a straight answer for once in her life. If she didn't slip out a back exit when she heard me come in, that is. _He set aside the lantern he'd been carrying and entered the final passageway, quietly, just in case she hadn't yet been alerted to his presence. He paused where the tunnel walls widened into the last grotto, which opened toward the left, and peered around the curved corner into the "bedroom". The first thing that entered his line of vision was a skirt and blouse, hung on pegs that had been inserted into the cave wall with the same precise masonry as in other rooms. None of her other clothes were in evidence. Nor was there any sign of her trunk as he scanned the rest of the shadowed and surprisingly empty space. _Where did that trunk of hers get to, then, if it isn't here and isn't at the tree house? Perhaps she traded her trunk and other belongings for some of the things she has here that I've never seen before, like the lanterns hanging in each chamber, or the tapestries hanging on the walls?_ This chamber had one of the heavy tapestries, but showed no sign of the personalized decorating efforts evident in the other rooms.

Although he was confused and more than a little irritated by the entire situation, he found himself releasing a soft breath of relief as he spotted her familiar figure on the nearly bed, the lone piece of furniture. _She's here._ She appeared to be sound asleep on a cot framed of the same material as the table in the main cavern. Her back was to the lantern light, and she was still almost fully clothed. It looked like she'd fallen onto the bed atop her blankets in utter exhaustion, too weary to bother with more than pulling off her boots.

Standing still, he scanned the mostly-empty space, seeking another exit, then toed off his boots and soft-footed around the room to make certain there wasn't a hidden twist to the surface that hid another tunnel out. Good, nothing but solid rock. She couldn't leave without passing through the large main cavern. That gave him the luxury of looking things over more thoroughly before waking her. _If I can get a handle on what she's up to, it won't be so easy for her to lie to me. Too bad her success as Parsifal means she's so bloody good at deception. Then again, if she hadn't been that good at deception, she'd never have lasted as Parsifal… _A chill shivered down his spine, not only at the thought that if it wasn't for her ability to color the truth she'd likely be dead instead of lying there on that cot, but also because he knew at least a little about how vital her role had been in ending the Great War. If not for Parsifal, tens of thousands more lives would have been lost, and the war might have gone on for years longer.

Learning that she was Parsifal had only cemented his admiration of Marguerite, although she'd insisted she wasn't important in the larger scheme of things. _It just goes to prove that there's good inside her, regardless of her denials. She has strong morals and genuine strength of character_, he reminded himself. _So this situation has to make sense, if I can only find the key. There must be a rational explanation, because there's no way I can accept that Marguerite, a luxury-loving lady if ever I've known one, has chosen to live here where she doesn't have any of the things that she's delighted in surrounding herself with since I've met her. _She was such a vibrant person, so very full of liveliness and appreciation of the small details that made life easier or more pleasant. He couldn't envision her accepting a place so devoid of anything to stimulate her mind, so lacking in creature comforts, let alone staying here for a prolonged time – at least, not all alone. She might pretend to be emotionally aloof and refuse to admit it to herself, but she needed people as much as she craved the finer material things of life.

In fact, although the furnishings of the main living area and other rooms were adequate – and he could all-too-easily picture the beautiful woman bathing contentedly in one of those hot springs – he didn't like to imagine Marguerite staying here by herself for this last week and a half. It was too empty here without other people sharing the caverns. He'd never envisioned Marguerite Krux living amongst anything less than material abundance, and this room - this whole dwelling place - contained too few of the comforts to which she was accustomed. As a case in point, the grotto in which he'd found her tonight, while adequate enough for sleeping, couldn't be described as remotely comfortable, let alone self-indulgent. Although there was a handsome tapestry in that one area, there was no mirror, no shelves to house her gems, no books to enjoy or study, no wardrobe in which to keep her clothing, no proper lighting for her reading or gemological work even if she had a desk and chair. When it came right down to it, she didn't even have a decent mattress, only what amounted to a hammock strung on a bamboo frame a few feet off the floor. And while the other living quarters he'd seen here were much better furnished, even they couldn't compare to what was available at the tree house – and how often had Marguerite grumbled about the insufficiencies there?

Roxton grimly shook his head. _No, there's nothing in these caves that could make her life easier or more enjoyable. There's only the bare minimum to ensure survival, no different than Veronica noticed about the things that Marguerite took with her the day she left us. _His frown deepened as he studied the slumbering woman, more than a little confused. _This isn't like the Marguerite I know. She staked her claim to her own room in the tree house before we were there an hour; how could she have worked on this cavern for nearly a year without her personal living space showing anything of her personality?_

This room should've been full of the vibrant colors of her carefully maintained clothing, the well-organized clutter of her oft-categorized and polished gems, and a jumbled collection of the books and journals she was currently reading, like her room at home. There should be freshly picked flowers, too; Marguerite always had flowers in her room. More than once when he'd teased her about taking time to collect her bouquets of blossoms, she'd haughtily informed him that just because they lived in the midst of a primitive jungle was no reason to forgo a properly aesthetic décor or the pleasant scents enjoyed by civilized persons.

Yet the only signs of _'aesthetic décor' _in the underground house were in the other bedrooms. She'd been here nine days without bringing a single flower into the cavern, and without appropriating items from the other rooms to make her own chamber more palatable? That didn't make any sense. _It's as if… as if she doesn't plan to stay._

The hunter glanced thoughtfully at the pack he'd noticed on the floor below the lantern that lit her room. The knapsack was already loaded and closed, as if it only needed morning light for her to be off again. Perhaps what he'd seen her doing today, the fishing and berry picking, had been her final collection of food rations before her departure tomorrow. She might have stopped in this cave not to stay, but to consolidate her supplies before moving on. It didn't explain where the rest of her things were, or what these caverns were in the first place, but it did fit with what he was seeing right here.

If she was prepared to leave, then it was doubly important not to wake her now. He needed a plan ready before he butted heads with her about the whole situation. With her backpack full of supplies and tomorrow's clothing already hanging ready to don, she could very well opt to storm away rather than staying long enough to fight it out with him. And there was no doubt in his mind that they would indeed argue heatedly; her anger would make her that much more resistant to his presence and his intention of taking her home. If he didn't say and do the right things, the stubborn woman would find a way to give him the slip at her first opportunity. With her newly-demonstrated proficiency at disappearing without a trace, he couldn't risk her turning on her heel and marching away.

_Yeah, I can definitely wait until morning to talk to her… preferably after she's had at least one cup of coffee. Besides, from the look of those dark circles under her eyes when I first saw her, she hasn't been sleeping well, poor darling. Her temper won't be improved any if I wake her now._ With that last thought in mind, John picked up his boots and cautiously tiptoed back out of the room and returned to the main grotto.

Once he was safely out of the echoing passageway, he walked slowly to the table and laid down his rifle beside his hat. He considered sitting down, taking a break, but he was tired enough that he might doze off. It was more important to explore the series of caves in more depth before Marguerite woke up. This time he'd try to keep an open mind and not jump to any conclusions. Maybe he'd gain a clearer perspective on the conflicting theories that were currently jumbled in his mind.

Pulling his boots back on and retrieving the lantern he'd set aside when he'd crept into Marguerite's already-lit room, he started with the chamber that had most startled him when he'd taken his hasty earlier look beyond the main cavern.

The closest chamber to Marguerite's was George Challenger's, and the contents of the quarters made him grin in appreciation. _The old boy will love this._ Roxton knew as surely as he knew his own name that the lanky scientist would spend many gleeful hours exclaiming over and reorganizing the equipment she'd provided for his work. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, and he realized that there was fresh air circulating in this chamber. He wandered around, unable to find anything resembling a vent until he turned his eyes on the ceiling. _There, up there… between those three stalactites. That hole must be a natural vent to the surface._ George would be thrilled and impressed to discover that his lab had its own ventilation.

There were wall hangings, beautifully embroidered tapestries that diminished the chill of the stone as they covered two sections of wall by the bed. _Where did she find tapestries depicting George's beloved dinosaurs? The Norse settlement, perhaps, or young Gawain's people. But how could she have communicated with them to do any trading? Both of those communities are days away from home. She must have found somewhere closer…_ George's bed was set up in a crescent-shaped area around a slight bend, away from the workbenches and shelves. Roxton studied the placement of the furnishings, and realized the professor would be able to sleep safely where the bed was tucked into that nook, protected from potential explosions or the gases of ongoing experiments by the curve of the wall and the venting over the work area. _It would certainly be convenient for George to be able to bunk in the same room with his precious work._ He chuckled as it occurred to him that if they lived here, Veronica couldn't scold the ginger-haired genius for falling asleep in his lab.

The hunter's eye was caught by books already lined up on a shelf near the scientist's bed, and he strode over to check them out. _That's not good; George'll be irritated to find out that Marguerite made off with some of his reference books to stock these shelves – or perhaps not_. Closer inspection revealed that he was familiar with some of the titles, and the vague recognition tugged at his memory. _Unless I miss my guess, these are the ones Challenger and Summerlee boxed up and stowed in the storage room because they were doubles of references the Layton Expedition library already contained. Hmm, no wonder no one noticed that the volumes were missing. It certainly gives the room a feel of home-away-from-home. Could she have done the same with the contents of the others' rooms, too? Brought over items we were no longer using? _

He left Challenger's room and returned to their American friend's room next, wanting to check his vague recollection that there had been a fair number of books in Ned's grotto, too. _I was right, although there aren't anywhere near as many as in George's chamber._ But Marguerite hadn't sneaked these out of the tree house right under the noses of her housemates. He recognized the titles of the few worn copies on the shelves as the handful of "penny dreadfuls" Ned had brought along on the journey, only to end up trading them away in those early days on the Plateau – after he'd read them, of course – to curious natives. _Although she teases Malone mercilessly about his poor taste in reading material, she must have gone to some trouble to track these down for him._ Roxton's lips curved wryly as he chose not to contemplate whether she'd attained them by fair means or foul … the amazing thing was that she'd bothered at all.

More astonishing still was the fact that the journals stacked on the shelf over the desk hadn't been purloined from the writer, but were brand new, made up of blank pages that were hand sewn together with neat stitches he had no trouble recognizing. At least half of the clothes owned by the adventurers were held together with that same precise needlework, thanks to Marguerite's still-unexplained skill as a seamstress. A smaller lantern than the ones on the wall pegs sat on the desk corner, this one with an arc of mirrors attached at exact angles around the back side. Curious, Roxton raised the glass globe and lit the lantern. As soon as the flame caught, the glow was amplified to an astonishing extent by the mirrors, providing excellent lighting for Ned's comfort while he recorded their Plateau adventures. Bottles of ink sat ready for the writing implements Challenger had invented for Ned after his original supply ran out. _I wonder if she brought these here before or after Ned left on his journey of self-discovery. Must have been while he was away, or he'd definitely have missed them. With light like this, and all these supplies, Ned will be like a child on Christmas morning – well, if he ever sees it._

Marguerite had made careful provision to ensure that the rest of the grotto would be a pleasant place for the young man to linger, too. The wall hangings around Ned's bed showcased the beautiful waterfalls of the lost world, brightening the room and giving it a peaceful feeling that would surely delight the nature-loving American.

Roxton took one last appreciative look over his shoulder before he walked back through the short connecting passage into the main area. He paused to listen carefully for any sound of movement from Marguerite's room. Once he was certain there was still no sign that she'd awakened, he turned to the next passageway.

Curious to discover what she'd prepared for Veronica, he quickly saw that his initial impression of bright colors had been caused by the fact that this grotto was generously decorated with Marguerite's missing scarves. _So this is where so much of her finery is! Veronica will appreciate the effect_, he decided as he studied the artfully arranged décor. The scarves were draped as lining and backdrop along shelves that held a generous selection of artifacts which had undoubtedly belonged to the Layton family and its expedition members, carefully preserved by the vigilant blonde, and somehow purloined and transported here by the sly brunette. _Veronica will be peeved when she sees that Marguerite smuggled these out without her noticing – all the more because we didn't notice these things missing when we were looking to see what Marguerite took when she left. But she'll enjoy the sense of home provided by the books, pictures and mementos._

Marguerite had only hung one wall tapestry here, since so much of the wall space was taken up with shelves and decorated with the scarves; Veronica's tapestry displayed a majestic jungle scene filled with the gorgeous flora and fauna her parents had taught her to respect. Roxton chuckled wryly to himself as he noticed the easel set up near the curtained bed. _So this is what happened to the old easel after Marguerite suggested to me that Veronica should have a nice new one! How convenient - for Marguerite!_ He wondered if she'd somehow bamboozled Challenger into supplying the collection of paints and brushes that sat ready for Veronica's use, or if she'd bartered for those at the same time she'd traded for the fresh pages that were now clipped to the easel. For that matter, where had she come by the mattress and the pristine linens with which the bed was made up? George and Ned hadn't rated such a luxury… but then Marguerite hadn't provided a real mattress and linens for herself either. The bed had most likely been too costly to afford more than one. _And she gave it to Veronica!_

His grin of delight at this discovery of his beloved's act of unselfishness was followed by a scowl as he pondered how far afield the dauntless beauty must have strayed on her solo trading trips, to have found items like this bed and the fine linens. The group had been stranded here long enough by now to have a fair idea of the sort of trade goods available from the nearby native villages, or from the occasional displaced European cultures they came across. Although there was a wide range of commodities available across the plateau, he couldn't recall anyplace within easy range where Marguerite could have found such quantities and qualities of paper and glass products, either. She must have dealt with strangers both to buy all of this and then to transport it here.

_Strangers and distance, secret swaps, and probably ninety-nine percent of it done when she was alone and vulnerable to attack!_ Grimly, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the chamber and down the short passage, intending to march straight back to Marguerite's side, wake her up, and set her straight about a few things. _Obstinate woman! How many times have I told her NOT to wander beyond the locales of our friends when she's alone? Anything could have happened! I'll have to remind her how dangerous it can be to venture too far away from the group… _

But his footsteps slowed as he reached the main area and, faced with the visible evidence that she'd left the tree house, that she'd left him… he recalled that he had a lot of amends to make before he'd have the right to scold her.

He drew a deep breath to calm himself down. _Remember what you're supposed to be doing… Think it out, old boy. It's clear that she's been preparing this hideaway for a long time. She's the one that furnished this place, and she set it up so that we could all live here. Of course, it's a safe bet she's changed her mind about inviting the rest of us to join her here, given the current situation. At this moment, it doesn't look like she plans to stay either. There has to be something here, somewhere, that will help me figure out what this is all about and what I need to do. I just have to keep looking. _

He moved on to the next passage, but paused to reconsider before stepping into the entryway. _Am I ready for a closer look at what she's done for Arthur? It's bound to bring back a lot of memories. I should have kept a closer eye on the old boy during that battle, should have made sure he was safe, somehow. _The expedition's protector braced himself and took several deep breaths before he could bring himself to reenter the chamber Marguerite had readied for the dear old Professor. _I can't fathom why she made up a chamber for him, too. I was sure she believed he was dead, but by the looks of this, she's as reluctant as the rest of us to accept that Arthur is really gone. Perhaps she's been swayed by our separate but similar experiences when his "ghost" led us all back to the top of the falls over which he was swept. Certainly anything is possible on this bloody Plateau._

Regardless of her reasons for preparing a room for their former comrade, Roxton could see that she'd taken just as much care with this room as with each of the others, except her own. She'd brought a fair amount of Arthur's belongings here, no doubt because there'd been no danger of him missing the items from his bedroom. The familiar scent of pipe tobacco lingered here, where his favorite pipes and pouch of mix sat on a slightly wobbly nightstand beside the thickly padded bed. Not as fine a mattress as Veronica's, perhaps, but indicative of Marguerite's special concern for the old gent's well being. The tapestries on the walls would have delighted the botanist, lovely woven illustrations of the verdant jungle flora Arthur had loved and studied.

As in everyone else's room, she'd provided for Summerlee's special interests. The tools of his trade were here in abundance, carried from the tree house and carefully arranged around the cave: Arthur's sketch pads and water color supplies were on a bamboo-topped table, set out ready for use; many of his personal journals were shelved above an assortment of pots and potting tools; his walking stick, his last spare pith helmet, and his sturdy hiking boots leaned near the doorway. _It's as if everything was left only moments ago by the man himself. If – when – Arthur does come back, he's going to be tickled pink with this room._

His mind somehow more at peace about the missing botanist, Lord Roxton left the restful chamber with one more lingering, wistful look over his shoulder. Being in that room brought back many tender memories of the old gent.

The only person not represented here was Finn. Of course, Finn hadn't been with them yet when Marguerite had started working on these rooms, and she'd only been a member of their family for a relatively short period before the girl had been returned to the future. Ned had never even met her. And it had all happened so recently that maybe Marguerite simply hadn't had time to figure out a way to include a space for Finn in this home she'd been preparing here. After all, she'd been fond of Finn and missed her bubbly presence in their home. When they'd been telling Ned all about her, Marguerite had even affectionately commented that she missed the girl's constant bouncing off the walls.

_In fact_, he pondered as a proverbial light brightened the dark corners of his mind, _each of these rooms brings to mind affection and respect for the others._ Looking back on what he'd seen and felt while he viewed his friends' living quarters, it dawned on him that Marguerite must have planned all of this to express her love and appreciation for each of them. The intimate details, the care she'd devoted to everything she'd done here, it all shouted that she cared deeply about each individual. _It's the only way this place makes sense – she meant to give it to us! I can't believe I was ready to accuse Marguerite of abandoning us… of abandoning me. _

He was intensely relieved by his growing conviction that Marguerite hadn't been planning to leave their improvised family when she'd started this project of hers. _She did all of this for us. It probably isn't finished yet; her own chamber is uncompleted, and it's possible there are other things she envisions for the shared common areas, too. I'll bet she already has an idea of when and how she wants to present it to us. Knowing her, she'll try to gloss over the significance of the incredible amount of thought and work represented here._

He grinned to himself, pondering how she might be planning to inform them about the existence of this second home. _Maybe she figures she can offer it as a holiday home of some sort, a safe get-away or resort where we can recuperate after a particularly harrowing run-in with one of the shifting planes of reality this lost world regularly tosses into our path. Or perhaps she intends to keep it a secret until we need it as a refuge from some natural disaster._ Whatever she intended, he had no doubt the others would instantly understand the underlying message once they were here.

His grin faded as he looked at the only doorway he hadn't gone back through yet: His.

He'd been too befuddled during his first scan of each room to gather detailed information; he'd only glanced around long enough to recognize to whom it belonged before he'd moved on to the next one. He'd identified this one as his because of a glimpse of what had looked like a wall rack for his guns. Although they maintained a group armory in the great room and everyone was responsible for the maintenance of his individual weapons, Roxton also kept personal armaments in his bedroom. He preferred to store his sporting weapons totally apart from the group's regular guns. None of the others needed – or wanted, for that matter – a gun rack in their bedrooms, so the presence of a gun rack had identified this grotto as his. For the life of him, though, he couldn't recall anything else he'd seen in the chamber at the end of the passageway he was now staring down. What would he find there?

_If Marguerite's preparations for our friends' rooms expressed her true feelings for them so well, what will I learn from seeing the space she's created for me? Will I discover that my hope of winning her heart has been in vain, that she sees me as no more than a close friend with whom it's been an interesting pastime to flirt? Or might I find encouragement that she's willing to be wooed and won? _He drew in a long, deep breath._ This is it. This will be the truth about our relationship. But whatever I find in here, however she feels about me, I still have to ask her to come back with me, for her own sake, and for the others… even if she couldn't care less about me._

He straightened his shoulders and marched forward, determined to leave no stone unturned in his effort to better understand Marguerite. He reminded himself of the facts he knew for certain now: _S__he wasn't planning to abandon us; it was only after we ganged up on her that she left the tree house. She didn't leave on a mere whim. No one could see this place without knowing how deeply she cares for each of us. But she was upset enough about Maria… and our betrayal… that she felt she had to go. We should have treated her objections to keeping the baby much more seriously. We owe her a major apology, first and foremost for our lack of consideration, and secondly for our most recent abominable behavior. She deserves that apology, whether I have any chance of talking her into coming home or not._

But his approach to making his appeal for her to return home with him would depend on what he learned in this final room. Would he be talking to her as a mere companion, or as the man she loved enough to spend a lifetime with? Was she dallying with him to bide her time, playing the usual sensual games of their culture? Or was he right to hang onto his hope that she was struggling to reconcile her past with an attraction to him that was more than merely physical? Had it been real in that cave, or only a product of the situation they'd been in?

He took one last breath to brace himself, and stepped out of the short tunnel. The first thing his eyes were drawn to was the gun rack. With a soft exclamation of delight, he went straight to it and ran admiring hands over the hand-hewn rack._ It's splendid, just the thing!_ It was perfect, exactly the right number of stone brackets to cradle each of his sporting rifles, and there were a pair of shelves that had been slightly hollowed to create a lip that would keep his cleaning tools from rolling off. And every line, every curve, as smooth as if the rock were polished wood! _I knew Marguerite could work wonders with stones, but this is –_

His attention was caught by something on the wall where it curved away from the gun rack. There was yet another magnificent hanging tapestry, this one with the majestic mountains woven into it. It wasn't the quality of the embroidery that snagged his attention, though; it was something beneath the tapestry. He stepped closer and lifted the heavy material away from the rock. _What the devil? How did a symbol of Kaiser Wilhelm get onto these cave walls on the Plateau, half a world away from Germany? Oh, that's definitely German troop insignia – and that one's British. What is this?_

He stepped back and scanned along the top of the tapestry and discovered that this one was hung like a curtain, mounted on the wall so that it was ready to be drawn back. The wall hanging was heavy, awkward to maneuver, but he worked steadily at it until he had drawn it as far to one side as he could, fascinated to discover that the whole wall it had covered was filled with etchings.

By the time he had the material fastened open, he'd realized that this was Marguerite's work, carved into the surface one line drawing at a time. It only took a moment more to realize it was her life he was seeing here, her history. He staggered back a step and reached out to steady himself as the truth hit him squarely between the eyes. _She's drawn the story of her life on the wall of this cave – it was meant for me, for my eyes only, to judge by the way the tapestry is hung to cover it. This is the method she chose to share all of her secrets with me! I've waited so long for her to trust me about her past! Oh Lord, she was ready to open her whole life to me, and I may have thrown it all away these last few weeks, before she had the chance to show me! _

As important as this realization was, though, this wall had an even more immediate relevance. _This is it!_ _This is what I've been searching for!_ _The answers I need about what's happened these past few weeks must be here on this wall! _

He'd watched her working over her treasure so many times during the last four years that he could easily envision her using her geologic and jeweler's tools, not to polish, reshape and refine her various gems, but to labor over this wall for untold hours during the past year. _Oh my brave and beautiful Marguerite! You did it! You were ready to tell me everything about yourself! You must have started making this long before you lost the Ouroboros, before we were trapped in that cave – all that time, you were preparing to share your life with me! Maybe if I hadn't lost my temper and said the things I did when we found out about Callum, you'd have shown me this wall already. _

Roxton winced as he remembered the times when he'd spoken harsh words to her, accused her of pulling away, charged her with never giving anything back to him despite his devotion to her. _Well, here's the evidence that proves what an imbecile I was! This is the work of weeks or even months, not something done at a moment's impulse._

Yet she'd never said a single word about this place, or this wall. She could have proven herself to him so easily! _Why did you hold back, Marguerite? It has to be more than me losing my temper with you. What made you afraid to allow me to love you and to admit that you love me? Understanding what you wanted me to know about your past, seeing what this wall says, may be my only chance to figure out how to convince you we have a future, despite your fears – if you can forgive me for driving you away with my ridiculous accusations and pig-headed judgments._

Somberly, almost holding his breath as he realized the magnitude of what this could mean to his future with Marguerite, he walked along the wall, touching the etchings reverently, and followed the rows of images up and back until he found the beginning. It was easy to see that she'd arranged the drawings so he could 'read' the images one line at a time across the wall, just like a book. The first thing that struck him was that he could interpret the simple but eloquent etchings accurately enough to know who or what each represented. _This is incredible! She's as good an artist in her own way as Veronica and Summerlee!_ The artwork wasn't as complex as some of the political cartoons to be found in journals and newspapers, yet he could grasp the emotional content as easily as he could the factual detail she'd documented onto the uneven surface.

Her first drawing was only a cloud shape with a question mark on it. He frowned. Naturally she would not recall the orphanage, having been adopted at such an early age, but apparently she had no memory of her adoptive family either. _Or maybe what she remembers about her adoptive family is so painful that she couldn't include it._ He clamped down on the anxiety that accompanied that idea, knowing he couldn't allow himself to dwell on such a possibility. _I have to stick with what she's drawn; I have to look for answers, not more questions._ Whether it was her next earliest memory or not, she must have been a very young child when she stood before an immensely large edifice with a cross on the top. She was alone, facing a group of other figures, both children and adults, but all much bigger than the child with the springy curls hanging down her back, and every one of them was dwarfed by the size of the building. The next drawing, she sat on a bed in a long row of other beds that held humps beneath covers; she cried and held tight to a necklace. He knew it had to be the one that she'd clung to all her life, engraved with the name "Marguerite" and proclaiming her parents' devotion to her. _But she's not even sure it really was a gift from her parents or whether that's her real name. I wonder if she knew even back then that it might not be hers, that Marguerite might not be her real name… She's so much smaller than the others; she must be younger. Why wasn't she home being comforted by her adoptive mother instead of alone in a dormitory of older girls? She must have been so frightened, so lonely…_ _No wonder she doesn't like to think about her childhood!_

Reading on, he winced as he realized that Marguerite must have learned to suppress her feelings long before she'd needed to do so as an adult. Right there in that group of drawings, still at the very first boarding school, she had been disciplined by the matron for crying as the other students went home for holidays. By the summer she had learned to hide her tears and her hurt. _I know boarding schools aren't reputed to be warm and welcoming, but didn't anyone_ _on the staff offer her any compassion at all? How could that family of hers send her away so young, and have no contact with her other than to pay for her keep all those years? Why did they even adopt her, only to send her away like this? No wonder she hides her emotions, if no one showed any sympathy or comfort! _

It appeared that although she'd often changed schools, the situation had remained the same regardless of where she went. There, that was the school near the standing stones at Avebury, and she'd drawn the stones with herself playing amongst them, a long scarf flying out behind her, a little heart drawn under her dancing figure. _She mentioned that once, when we were trying to get Malone back from the spirit world. She said that she'd been happy there. When I asked her about it later, she described that scarf as a means of identifying herself. It must have been special to her for her to remember it all these years. I'll have to ask her about its significance… well, if she ever gives me the chance._

He was surprised to see that she'd attended schools in so many different countries, even in the Americas. _She'd have had next to no chance to make, let alone to keep, any friends. _There… was that taunting and persecution? It certainly looked quite similar to the kind of hazing that normally occurred in the boys' schools when one lad was perceived as being either a teacher's favorite or as different from his mates in some way. If he was interpreting this right, she had pretended indifference and indolence toward her studies to protect herself, and it also looked like she'd begun to study in secret isolation. _Perhaps this is why she hides her innate intelligence and downplays her love of learning, a leftover habit from back in her youth._

She ran away for a while – and there was another heart etched beneath her in that series of sketches. _Ah, this must be the time she told me about when I asked her where she'd learned battle tactics. _He still wasn't sure whether she'd merely been evading his question or whether it honestly hadn't occurred to her that he was asking for a more in-depth reason than 'not wanting to be caught' for why she'd been trying to evade those gendarmes. Whatever mischief they'd been up to, she'd clearly been happy running around the streets of Paris with a group of other homeless youths. It looked like she'd had more friendship and more fun with those lawless youngsters than she'd found anywhere else. Based on the drawings of budding and then blossoming plants she'd included in these panels, she'd been on the streets with them over two seasons before officials found her and sent her off to yet another boarding school. Needless to say, there were no smiling hearts in any of the drawings of the time she'd spent at the institutions.

By the way she drew the wide smile in the simple outline that was the younger Marguerite, he could see how eager she had been when she finished school; she'd traveled straight to a bank in London – the symbol on the building was unmistakable. _It must be the bank that forwarded payments to her schools_. At the bank she'd held out her hand only to be shown empty pockets. She'd extended her locket next, the one left to her by her parents. The response had clearly been an expressive shrug, and the girlish figure that exited the bank had a dejected slump, and a deflated heart beneath it. _This must be when she found out that her adoptive family would no longer support her and didn't want further contact with her, and she realized she was wholly on her own. Fresh from school like that, what the devil did she do to support herself?_

The wall didn't include anything that explained the time gaps between the sequences, so he had no way of knowing how long she was destitute before she drew what he instantly recognized as a country fair. He tensed, expecting the worst; he had wonderful memories of attending traveling fairs whenever they came through Avebury, but such roaming gypsies had a terrible reputation when it came to beautiful and unprotected young women. She'd have been completely at their mercy. However, to his relief it looked like she'd been accepted into their caravan as one of their own. He had to chuckle as he 'read' the pictures and saw that she'd become the fair's fortune teller. From the smiles on people's faces as they left her tent, it looked like she'd been good at it, too – at least in her own opinion. _And of course, it a Gypsy that taught her how to wield a whip! No wonder she didn't want to explain! She knew we'd consider her living amongst them to be questionable._

Roxton grunted as he saw what came next. "Naturally fortunetelling led to séances," he muttered to himself. She'd evidently parlayed her success at fortune telling into a career holding proper séances for upper class patrons. He doubted if she'd cleared her teens by much before she was earning enough to support herself and a small staff, which would have lent genuine respectability to her reputation. John winced as he recalled his reaction when he'd learned that she'd been involved in yet another disreputable activity. He'd lumped her in with the worst of the lot and all but accused her of taking advantage of grieving people, while George had characterized mediums as charlatans and talked derisively about working with Houdini to 'debunk' them. Between the pair of them, they'd done a fair job of belittling an occupation that had provided Marguerite with the means to support herself.

_It's no wonder she hesitated to confide to us about her past, given our thoughtless judgments. She's right that some people don't have the luxury of choice or the advantages both Challenger and I have had. Our ancestry, our family fortunes, the best schools, and society's respect brought George and me to where we are today. Ned's family backed him through his schooling and encouraged his writing, and even Veronica had Assai or the Amazons to support her. Marguerite had nothing but her looks, her wits, and her education. Considering the options available to a young girl abandoned to make her own way, she certainly could have done worse_, he acknowledged to himself. _And given the connection to the spirit world that she's exhibited here on the plateau, perhaps the service she provided to the people who attended her séances back then was genuine after all._

The next sequence showed that Marguerite had gone back to that London bank, money in one hand, locket in the other, and asked questions. _She's looking for her family_, he realized as he saw that she immediately moved her small household to Paris and resumed her séances there. _Not her adoptive family, I suspect; more likely she's looking for her birth parents. She's following some sort of clues._

Roxton's hands clenched into fists as he saw that her search took her into back alleys and along the waterfront. She continued working as a medium while she asked more questions, paid money and sent messages, but she was paying out more than she was taking in. When she released her staff and moved to a less affluent neighborhood, he wasn't surprised, but he didn't like it. He liked it even less when she moved again into a basement. _She needs to hold off on her search and concentrate on working more, or she's going to be in serious trouble,_ he worried.

Unfortunately, he was right. Without a proper setting in which to conduct her meetings, Marguerite lost her aristocratic clientele, which further reduced her income. Roxton knew what had to come next, given that she was in Paris, and he knew the woman had been one person Marguerite considered to be a friend, but he wasn't at all pleased to see her bump into Adrianne Montclair. _There's the start of a disastrous partnership_. _That woman certainly didn't improve Marguerite's life any._ Not that she'd told him much about their lives, but he did know that their time at the Fat Boy's night club had ended up being a disaster for both women.

What he didn't expect was how well their association started out. He was surprised to see Marguerite on the stage, apparently singing, while Adrianne accompanied her on the piano. He was also taken aback to note that his lady had drawn the crowd on their feet, cheering and tossing coins. _If she's so good a singer, why haven't we noticed it when she sings at home? Sometimes her singing is okay, but she certainly doesn't have the talent to bring an audience to its feet._ He would have to ask her about that one, too, since there was no clue here. _Of course it could just be wishful thinking on her part. _Whether her perception was accurate or not, the heart beneath her in that sequence looked good; she'd obviously enjoyed the life they shared. _Wish I didn't know it was going to end so badly for her. _

Sure enough, the very next sequence depicted men – the night club management, if he recalled rightly – demanding a cut of the money the two favorites were earning from their audience. It was downhill from there. He recognized a scene Marguerite had once described to him, although he had a better grasp of events now that he was seeing it depicted here: _That has to be Adrianne meeting that man who offered a way out from under the protection racket that was sucking them into debt instead of helping fulfill their dreams._ Marguerite hadn't glossed over what the pair had done as they found themselves dragged deeper and deeper into criminal activities, finding marks for other thieves at first, then, once they'd been implicated, forced to actually carry out the thefts themselves. Her wall-story was very honest, and the little heart was wavering. _That bloody Adrianne! Look what she got Marguerite into!_ _She was still a mere girl; she must've been scared to death! _

_And there, that must be when Adrianne started squirreling away some of their loot. What was it that Marguerite said? Adrianne had called it their security net, their escape. _He saw where men came and took the older woman away. Marguerite retrieved the jewelry stash and fled even as those men came back for her. Marguerite had drawn her heart here almost crushed, as if by a vice grip.

He recognized the outline of the Mediterranean buildings of Monte Carlo next. _She must have put their savings to good use; looks like she was mingling with the aristocracy, living the high life._ And there was her first marriage. Roxton found himself frowning as he 'read' the images of Marguerite having it everything she'd said she and Adrianne wanted, the wealthy husband, a villa, servants, jewels, parties, and she'd etched the little heart shape beneath herself, but it was much tinier than in her other images. _I think she was happy, but not in love,_ he decided, guiltily glad for this sign that her first husband hadn't won her heart. He selfishly hoped that he was the first man she'd truly loved.

Then he came to the sketches of Marguerite finding her husband with a mistress. He cursed under his breath, imagining how it must have hurt her. Sure enough, her smile vanished, and then the heart cracked when her husband was caught with another man's wife and was killed in the subsequent duel. _And there, she drew the crack in her heart before that next picture where the bank foreclosed on their villa for her husband's debts. She may not have loved him deeply, but she must've genuinely cared for the man. _He told himself he was glad she hadn't married just for money – at least, not the first time – but found himself wishing he could get his hands on the scoundrel who had betrayed her affection and her dreams so callously.

From then on the wall always pictured the little cracked heart beneath every figure that represented her. Marguerite went back to singing for a living, which led to her being found by one of Adrianne's old Paris associates – _Look at that! She must have drawn him with that oddly shaped tie in the earlier scenes to identify him as the same man now. I wonder if he really wore a tie like that… I'll have to ask her._ Marguerite was forced back into being a thief, and Odd-tie Man and his associates made sure she turned over what she stole. _Strange; there's no sign that she broke away from them, but the next sequence looks like she's gone to Salzburg… _

If he was interpreting the drawings correctly, Marguerite was working with a jeweler and living with him above his shop? Was this husband number two? It looked like the two of them traveled quite a bit; she was here, there and everywhere around Europe. He recognized skylines from England, then Germany, France, Austro-Hungary, Germany again, Belgium… Roxton noted that the crack in her heart since her first husband's betrayal was still there. _She didn't love this jeweler or she'd be whole-hearted again. So maybe she's with him because of something to do with what he does for a living. It must be getting near the start of the Great War, but I don't think she was spying so early on. She can't be staying with him just for the gems; she could have simply stolen them if that's all she wanted._ His amusement at his own speculation faded as he focused on the next drawing.

Marguerite had a baby girl in her arms.

Roxton winced at the big smile and the undamaged little heart beneath the new mother. _She was happy, really happy, for the first time since she lived in the streets of Paris with her friends as a youngster. But somehow, she's going to lose that child, and I'd lay odds that she blames herself. And I told her she'd be a bad mother. She's never going to forgive me._ His guilt deepened as he continued 'reading'. She'd carried the baby with her everywhere, bundled on her front with what must've been a pouch like the one she'd folded for Veronica the day she'd left the tree house. _Why is her husband standing off in the background like that instead of at her side?_ he wondered uneasily. _There has to be a specific reason she took the time to draw him like that… _

The baby had been old enough to walk when the jeweler suddenly sported the insignia of a German officer. Odd-tie man was back, standing at the jeweler's side, only now he, too, was wearing German military insignia. He held a knife to the baby. Roxton couldn't see anything that explained what the man was demanding of Marguerite, but whatever it was, the jeweler sided with Odd-tie rather than his wife and daughter.

Marguerite traveled to France, and then to Great Britain. Roxton was puzzled until she returned to Austria and handed over papers; the two men handed her the baby. _They've forced her to spy for them!_ he realized, shocked._ They held her baby hostage!_ His jaw clenched as he saw her climb out a window with her daughter, only to find the jeweler waiting. He took the child from her, and Odd-tie hit her, and the two men sent her on another journey. Once she returned, she tried again to escape with the baby. The jeweler interfered. They fought, and she killed him. She was on the run, living on the streets again, chased by Odd-tie and his military associates as well as by the police.

Roxton released a shaky breath of relief as he saw that she'd made it across the border, back into France. But Odd-tie followed her there, and he was always too close for her to hold a job or keep an apartment, and now her daughter was sick. If he was following the story right, at that point Marguerite even tried working as a prostitute so she could pay for a doctor, but Odd-tie found her and nearly took her daughter again before she eluded him. No matter what she tried, he found her. She couldn't provide her child with shelter, food, or medical care. She finally tried leaving her little girl at a charity hospital. But Odd-tie had people watching, and they took the child and used her to draw Marguerite back into their employ once more. _They shouldn't have messed with a desperate mother_, he mused as he saw their hideout in flames while she walked away with her daughter in her arms again. _It was too late, though, too late for doctors to be able to help_. Back at the hospital, the baby died.

Marguerite's heart had shattered. He felt as if his own heart was breaking. _No wonder she didn't want to have little Maria live with us. It must have brought back terrible memories for her! What I said about her capability as a mother must have hurt her terribly, too. She probably believes that her past was at least partly responsible for her daughter's death. And I'll bet that's why she thinks her past could endanger anyone else she gets close to! _Roxton clenched his fists and cursed, wishing he could have just five minutes with the monster who had betrayed the defenseless woman and used their child against her. He'd have killed the man himself, if Marguerite hadn't done it already. _Come to think of it, I'll bet she thinks I won't be able to accept the fact that she killed her daughter's father. But it was clearly self-defense. She had no more choice about that than she did about becoming a spy; it was forced on her. _

_What's she doing now? Is that the British Embassy in Paris? It is._ The insignia over the doorway was fairly distinctive. After a visit there, she traveled again, and he realized this must be the development of the Black Widow of Vienna, which had been one of her aliases before she'd added Parsifal to her repertoire. _She took what they made her learn, and she voluntarily chose to use it for the British, he realized proudly._ She crossed borders with impunity, hobnobbing with the rich and powerful as well as haunting the alleys and dives of Europe's cities. _Looks like she took advantage of a few opportunities to execute a few thefts, too_, he noticed, amazed that she had included such condemning detail on this wall. _She hasn't tried to keep anything back at all; she apparently planned to tell me even the worst of what she's done. I mustn't fail her, not after she's shown this much courage._

Now he could track the dates, because of the detail she included as the Great War began. She'd moved through the background all during 1914 and into 1915. He wondered keenly whether she'd noted those particular places and battles because she'd had some involvement in them. If so, she must have witnessed some horrific things, just as he and Malone had. He also noticed that every now and then she was showing her locket and asking questions. _She's still trying to find her family, too, making contacts and gathering clues about her past, not just spying for mother England. _He chuckled at this evidence of her ability to turn situations to her own advantage._ Clever girl, my Marguerite! _

There was the Gallipoli fiasco, Ypres, Champagne, back to Berlin – _Is __that a prison? She was arrested? Was it as a thief, or as a spy? Ah, it's Kaiser's men releasing her; this must be when she became a double agent._

She'd gone to Berlin, spent some time in Vienna again, visited London and then traveled to Egypt. _That man she's playing cat and mouse with must be Applegate or Burton or whatever his name was._ She appeared to make her living in Cairo by trading in antiquities, although Roxton was positive it was only a cover for her continued spying. She had to have been setting up Parsifal's initial reputation by this point. And it was in Cairo that she met another man, not the trophy hunter who'd come to the plateau in search of the Challenger Expedition, but someone else. If Roxton was reading this right, it looked like he might have been more than just a fellow spy; he'd given Marguerite flowers and gifts… and a ring?

He scowled jealously as he saw that her shattered heart, held together by string since the death of her baby, slowly mended under that man's care. When the man left Cairo, she flew to England for a brief clandestine meeting with a recognizable Winston Churchill – _what a perfect caricature!_ – which Roxton had good cause to know was when the plan had been set in motion to develop a credible coup that would give Parsifal the needed reputation with the Germans. And then she was following the Cairo man east, across Russia with a brief stop in Petrograd, and then straight on to Shanghai.

The man she'd followed hadn't expected to see her there; she'd found him with another woman, and if he could judge by the gestures of the little figures, they'd had a doozy of a break-up. The little heart was crushed again, to Roxton's dismay. _She cared about that one. If the jeweler was her second husband, this one is the third husband that she occasionally jokes about. No wonder she was willing to risk her life by taking Xan's half of the Ouroboros. She must have been desperate to get her hands on that birth certificate so she could find someone to belong to, after being betrayed yet again! With the way she's been treated by other men, I'm lucky she hesitated long enough for Callum to snatch the medallion before she could use it. _She'd lost what might prove to be her last chance to find her birth parents and why? Because of her feelings for him, feelings she had good reason to distrust, based on what he was now seeing. He had so much to make up to her! What she'd gone through to get this far was enough to make him quake in his boots as he continued to 'read' her story.

From the details she'd revealed during their arguments over the Ouroboros, Roxton knew she'd made a deal in Russia for diamonds meant for the Xan, and those diamonds hadn't ended up where Xan expected – according to the previous panels where she'd been in Petrograd, he now knew the gems had been sent back to good ole 'Winnie'. It was no wonder the crime lord had sent his henchmen after her! He swallowed hard at her near brush with death as she escaped Shanghai with the half of the artifact that she'd 'borrowed' from Xan. Barely eluding capture at each stop along the way, she headed back to Europe. She lingered in Constantinople to ply her trade, then undertook some murky business in Paris, and finally arrived back to London on the arm of Baron Von Helfing just in time to be called in and interrogated by MI5 about the theft of the iridium.

Remembering the slender, sophisticated, poised woman in red that he'd seen through the darkened mirror, he could only marvel. _I never would have guessed that she had just spent the previous months staying only a step ahead of Xan's Asian bravos, or that she'd been engaged in deadly games of cat and mouse with both Axis and Allied agents over the last several years – or that she was embarking on a period of even more dangerous activity._ _And while she may have managed to gather some wealth through it all, I'm now positive that her motivation wasn't the platinum she claimed to be so fond of as the Baroness, or any of the other mercenary reasons Marguerite has so often stated since I met her after the war. No, I believe her main motivations were defeating Kaiser Wilhelm's plans to dominate the civilized world… and to find out her own name!_

She hadn't included much detail about the last year of the Great War, and he suspected that was due to the Official Secrets Act. She'd been in Berlin, and had also journeyed to Petrograd again before returning at last to England for another meeting with 'Winnie'. Roxton was intrigued to see that the statesman had given her some sort of papers… _Money, or information about her past_, he wondered.

In the next sequence of drawings, John learned for the first time that she had faced and killed a German assassin just before stepping into the Royal Zoological Society meeting where she'd so coolly offered to fund the Challenger's expedition. She'd dodged another assassination attempt on that morning they'd met at Challenger's home to finalize their plans, this time outwitting one of Xan's bravos. That explained her tardy arrival. _Amazing. She was as steady as a rock that day!_ He had good cause to be thankful for her steely nerves, recalling the shot she'd placed between his legs. _It's no wonder she was scornful about my opinion that this was no trip for a lady, given what I know now about her_. _A trip up the Amazon was a walk in the park for her compared to what she'd already gone through._

Also for the first time, he learned that she'd not only spent every last pound she had to her name, but had also borrowed heavily from… unscrupulous sources. _She must have been lying when she said her resources weren't limited_, he frowned, and was aghast to realize the lengths to which she'd gone to fund the trip so she would have a place on Challenger's expedition.

_Good Lord, it's not only the Ouroboros she needed to locate here – she's can't possibly return to Europe until she has a source of income to satisfy every last creditor! Those are the sort that maim or kill the poor saps that can't repay them. She must have known before we left England that she'd need a fortune vast enough to pay off those percenters, or she'd have very poor odds of living long enough to use her birth certificate to trace her parents. _Roxton realized, stunned, that this had to be why she'd been so "greedy"._ She needs a bloody treasure just to survive! This is why she hoards everything she can find. _With a grimace he chastised himself for toying with her when she'd tried to pry information from him about his family fortune. _ I'll have to give her a straight answer about the Roxton wealth next time she asks, so she has one less thing to worry about._

John skimmed over the depictions of their journey up the Amazon, noting that her simple line drawings had captured Summerlee's unease, Challenger's arrogant posture, and Ned's curiosity and enthusiasm. John identified himself by the presence of his guns and his hat, amused at the broad shoulders and the aura of power she had infused into her drawings of him. _Is this how she sees me? I guess it confirms that she's always admired me as much as I've admired her. That's nice to know._

The balloon journey onto the Plateau was starkly frightening, and the meeting with Veronica, when the jungle girl pretended to be the savage they'd taken her for at first sight, was as hilarious as the balloon journey had been harrowing. _She really has a knack for caricatures and communicative drawings_, he thought yet again, and couldn't help wondering why she'd never revealed this particular trait. Skill with artwork didn't seem like anything that could result in danger to anyone.

Marguerite was still being quite honest with the images, as far as he could tell, even going so far as to show that Lord Roxton's active pursuit of her had alternately amused and frightened her. It had also confused her, because he kept risking his life to save Marguerite and the others. Through it all, the shattered heart and her locket remained her constant companions, and she drew herself into their adventures as always slightly separated from the others.

He noted smugly that she depicted him as a knight in shining armor when he'd jousted to defend young King Gawain. In fact, she'd drawn a flattering number of episodes where Lord John Roxton came out the hero… but his actions didn't earn her trust. Instead, his behavior left the lady on the wall with a cloud and a question mark over her head. _Well, at least now I can understand why she couldn't decide what to make of me, _he thought wryly with a dark glance back along the wall as he put two and two together_. Until she began to travel with us, it doesn't look like she ever met anyone she could trust, except maybe Adrienne. I'd have treated me warily, too, given her past. _

Marguerite's wall showed that Veronica had left her with similar confusion. From the incidents Marguerite had chosen to include, it looked like she'd deliberately provoked the jungle girl to test her strengths, both physical and moral. The image Marguerite jeered when the younger girl defended Ned or other plateau-dwellers, and she was obviously frustrated by Veronica's trick of waking her with a bucket of cold water when she overslept. Nonetheless, Veronica was consistently depicted as honest and courageous, caring for others, and self-sacrificing. _I wonder if it's something she realized as she looked back on events, or whether she secretly respected Veronica all along. Between the lot of us, she was certainly faced with a situation she'd never been in before. _

Summerlee had puzzled Marguerite, too, but the old gentleman hadn't frightened her like John or antagonized her like Veronica. Marguerite had drawn the time when Arthur had been deathly ill from bee venom, and she had pretended to be his wife Anna in order to comfort him. It had been the beginning of friendship and affection between the two. And it was here that Marguerite drew her shattered heart with the pieces beginning to reassemble.

It looked like she'd had several confrontations with Challenger early on, although he wasn't familiar with the incidents and couldn't tell exactly what was happening. She was alternately amused or impatient with the scientist's activities, but she apparently had no trouble understanding George's arrogance, self-absorption or brilliance.

Ned continually annoyed her, asking too many questions, always with a notebook and poised pen in hand. _Knowing what we know now about her past, I'm amazed his prying didn't provoke her into killing him instead of merely ripping pages out of his journal and taunting him. I wonder why she – oh, Veronica and me, of course. She knew we were watching over Ned._

Of course as time passed she'd learned to know and respect each of her companions – even the young reporter – and as she began to trust them, her heart mended. The scars still showed, and it still took a string to hold the pieces all together, but it was definitely healing.

Using the heart image this way was a graphically clear method to show how she had felt about the things in her life. Roxton found himself checking that little portion of each etched panel to judge how his lady was affected by the events. It was quite revealing.

Her heart nearly shattered again when Tribune bombed the hanging bridge and all four of the expedition men fell into the Summerlee River. She'd drawn herself and Veronica, leaning over the cliff, both in tears and reaching down, with only Roxton's hat in sight between them and the raging river so far below. After that, even when the women had found three of the four men, the pieces of her heart dangled by the string instead of being bound together.

John remembered all too well the odd "I like you, but keep your distance" relationship that had existed between the prickly heiress and the other explorers after they'd been reunited. Marguerite had drawn it on the wall by showing herself not only slightly separated from the group, but always with her body turned away from them.

Still, despite her wariness, those pieces of her heart had come together again a little at a time as the stranded group continued to triumph over the "shifting planes of reality" on the Plateau.

It was when John Roxton refused to abandon Marguerite to be hung by Edgar Guest that the bits of her heart were finally pieced together within the coils of string. John was surprised to see that she had drawn her heart nearly shattering anew as she cauterized his bullet wound to save his life… and then she drew it tied together again after he kissed her when he woke up. John chuckled aloud when the hangman's cowl and cape fell away to reveal him as her knight in shining armor again. _As soon as I'm sure she's not going to take my head off, it's going to be great fun to tease her about this!_

His smile dimmed as he saw that it was then that she'd first sneaked away to what had to be these caverns, but Roxton couldn't help chuckling again at her cloak-and-dagger depiction of eluding his and Veronica's attentiveness as she began to gather supplies and materials for her secret project. From then on, the jagged scars had vanished one by one with each new experience of the group's collective or individual care for Marguerite. _I was right about the how long she's been preparing this place_, he thought, his own heart warming at this sign of her genuine affections for her housemates.

Little cracks reappeared in her heart with the loss of Veronica and the balloon, and then again when Malone left on his quest, but she still wore her locket and she no longer drew herself separated from the others; John's image was always beside her own.

There were hardly any marks left to disfigure her heart before Callum showed up demanding the Ouroboros. Afterwards, the number of cracks didn't increase, but the ones that remained were jagged instead of straight. Also, she'd etched herself onto the wall with shaky lines instead of clear ones. He remembered how lost and uncertain she'd been, how withdrawn. Marguerite had included the scene of the two of them on the balcony while Veronica was walking away down below. His image was reaching out to hers, and that cloud with the question mark was back over her head. _She didn't know whether to trust me after what I'd said to her the day before, and I can't say I blame her. _He found his own heart aching for her, and wished once again that he could take back the angry words that had damaged her fragile trust in him. _And her necklace is gone! Has she really stopped wearing it since then, and I didn't notice it, or is it just the way she drew it to show that she's lost her only connection to her family? All she had left was us, and we drove her away! _

Roxton turned away from the wall, ran a trembling hand over his face, and took a deep breath._ Lord, if just reading this is making me shake, what must Marguerite have gone through to engrave it? But she kept at it, for me. She loves me enough that she was willing to bare her soul. I've got to buck up and finish this, for her._ Resolutely, he squared his shoulders and faced the wall again.

There was Finn… and the crazy stale-mate over who was or wasn't demon-possessed… _I'll never forget the satisfaction of having her slip her hand into mine that day! If I'd known all of this then, I wouldn't have demanded so much of her, I'd have been more patient… but she met the challenge, my brave darling_. Then there'd been that embarrassing situation with the poison ivy, and they'd almost lost Challenger… and then they'd found Drummond, or he'd found them. He backed up a step, startled by what he saw. _What the devil? Now why in the world did she draw me as a knight again when it was her that turned out to be Parsifal? That makes no sense at all!_ Another thing to ask her.

The next sequence he understood far too well; he'd told her that he loved her, and she'd said he couldn't. Anyone else looking at those images would have focused on Mordren's sudden appearance and the threat to Veronica. They'd have quickly 'read' on to see what happened next. He almost overlooked it himself, but then took a second, more thoughtful look because something didn't fit with everything else. _There, that's what it is!_ He'd had to squint to see the Marguerite figure on the wall, and at first he assumed she hadn't finished the carving. But everything else in that sequence was clearly cut into the stone, like everything before and after it. _No, she did this deliberately, to show that she felt like she had no substance, nothing to offer, not even a name_. He recalled her agonized words with a bitter pang. _And before I had a chance to convince her otherwise, Mordren was there and gone, and she was off like a shot to get back to Veronica… and to avoid me_.

And there was the time, not so very long after, when the two of them had been trapped in that cave. She'd engraved images of them trying to move the rocks, of their argument, of them sitting side by side against that altar, and of Roxton offering her his own heart, which she'd drawn in successive panels as growing and encompassing the two of them, not cut as deeply into the stone as everything else, but it was clearly his heart surrounding them, his love unifying them. He grinned at the kiss depicted next. She had drawn her heart larger than ever before, and the only scars that remained were small and wobbly. _Well, at least I did something right that day!_

After their cave misadventure, each image showed them side by side, arms linked, always with John's heart encircling them. When the shifting planes of reality had torn them apart into different times, the faint heart-shaped line surrounded her until they were back arm-in-arm again so many weeks later. _I'll have to ask her exactly what she meant to symbolize with that_.

And then they found the baby and brought her to the tree house. He could see that these drawings were almost brand new, and they lacked the neat precision of the previous etchings, less controlled, more raw than anything else on the wall. A long crack appeared in her heart that day. He winced as he saw the way she'd drawn the baby on one side of the group, and herself on the other… and they were all facing the baby, not her. _Why didn't she tell me? Or did she try, and I just didn't listen? No, she's recorded so much; wouldn't she have included that, too? Why didn't I see what was happening when she went off by herself every day? _

John drew a ragged breath as he saw the record of the conflict caused by Maria's teething. A new, wide crack was added to her heart by their accusing words that night. John's curled lip and angry scowl had hurt her most of all. The looks of the faces of her friends, drawn so starkly and clearly with her simple lines, showed the dislike their words and expressions had conveyed to poor Marguerite that night.

He groaned at the extent of the damage they'd done, he'd done, and didn't think it could get any worse than that.

But it was her taking care of the baby for them the next day that caused that longest crack in her heart to go jagged, nearly cutting her shaky heart in two. Afterwards, she'd held her hands out in appeal to her friends, but their eyes were closed to her. And that was what shattered her heart. But this time it wasn't just in pieces; it was only a pile of dust, beyond repair.

The next morning she'd walked away from the tree house, with no heart, no locket, no John at her side, no future. _This was how she saw it. This is what she felt. No wonder she left us._

There were no more pictures to the story.

John sank to his knees on the cold stone floor, head hanging, tears trailing down his cheeks. _I broke my promises to her, failed her when she needed me to be there for her and help her through her pain. I only saw my own side, and I wanted Marguerite to fit herself to my ideas without even asking her about hers. I'm as bad as those men who hurt her before – worse! _

_Thank God I found her today! Now I have a chance to make it right. I can't mess this up again. I have to make sure she knows she's loved! _He straightened, taut with determination, and wiped away the moisture on his face. _Time to plan_.

He walked slowly back to the main room, lost in thought. He now knew her deepest, darkest secrets. What he did next would determine whether she forgave him and permitted them all another chance to undo the harm they'd done, or whether he lost her for good.

What could he do to heal the wounds he'd inflicted? How could he demonstrate his regret and prove his commitment to her? How could he regain her trust?

He dropped onto one of the chairs at the table and absently stared down at his hat. _One thing's for certain: I can't ask her to go back home with me as long as Maria is there. Maybe, in time, she'll be ready to face a situation like that again, but with the way we mishandled everything since we found the baby, Marguerite's emotions are obviously too raw to expect her to make any attempt to live in the same house as an infant._

His only consolation was that he no longer harbored any doubt about whether she had been playing some kind of game with his emotions or whether she genuinely loved him. He was confident now that he'd been right about her behavior since their escape from the cave; her reserve since then was merely her uncertainty about how to deal with the issues that still remained. If they hadn't found Maria and taken her home, if they hadn't chosen the baby over Marguerite, she'd still be planning to bring him here and show him that wall. _If only I hadn't let her close herself off from us, if I'd encouraged her to talk to me about what was really bothering her instead of assuming I understood what was going on, she might even have told me about losing her baby. But I thought I knew best, and she paid the price. Now it's up to me to set things right again, for all our sakes. What can I possibly say to her -_

His pondering was interrupted when a low sound snagged his subconscious mind to attention. _There's that wind in the window sound! I should go trace it - _

_Wait a minute!_ His head snapped up. "There aren't any windows! And there's no wind!" John frowned and got to his feet. He followed the whisper of sound. What he found made his stomach clench. His step faltered, but then, horrified, he leapt forward.

Marguerite was curled up tight on her cot, great sobs shaking her slender frame as she muffled the sound against the slim arms wrapped so tightly around her knees. With a groan, Roxton scooped her into his arms and sank down on the low bed so that he could cradle her on his lap.

He had never imagined seeing Marguerite Krux so broken, so heart-rendingly vulnerable. It tore him apart to see her struggling with all her might not to cry, and failing miserably. She would hate for him to see her like this, so overwhelmed by her emotions and so lost in her effort to deal with her pain that she didn't even seem aware of his presence. She was shaking badly, and at first he thought it was just from the force of her muffled sobs, but then he touched her and discovered to his dismay that she was ice cold. John pried her arms from around her legs so he could unfold her and ease her body closer to his own warmth. He hugged her tight to his chest and firmly encircled her resisting body in his arms, trying to ease her loneliness and misery as well as her physical chill. At first he didn't think he was having any effect at all, but then, at least on some subconscious level, she accepted his presence. One hand grasped a fistful of his shirt and she turned her face into the crook of his shoulder. With her grief-stricken keening no longer muffled by her body, the volume of her lament increased dramatically, and her tears, the only warm thing about her, quickly drenched his shirt.

Hating himself for having been part of what brought Marguerite to this point, he rocked her and whispered soothing words of comfort and of love. He alternately smoothed her thick, tangled curls or rubbed her arms to warm her, and pressed tender kisses to the top of her head as she clung to him. _How often did she need someone to hold her and reassure her, and either no one was there, or no one was willing to reach out to her and do so?_

She wasn't warming up. Roxton shifted and yanked the blanket from beneath them. He bundled it around her, creating a cocoon to hold in the body heat he was trying to impart. That was more effective than merely rubbing her arms, and gradually, her heavy sobs gentled to weeping, and then to hiccuping catches of her breath. She was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and sank into sleep again without ever looking up at him, her slender body relaxing into him at last.

When he was positive she was fully asleep, he brushed aside her curls and carefully lifted her collar back from her neck to confirm at least one thing he'd wondered about earlier; no necklace. He closed his eyes and shook his head with a regretful grimace, unable to remember the last time he'd seen her wear it. _I should have noticed. I should have asked her about it. I know her better than anyone else in the world knows her, and I didn't see that she was losing every hope for her future. I'm all she has now, and I blew it. I have to make it up to her. I have to believe for both of us until she can believe in me, in my love for her. I have to give her reason to hope again, to give me another chance. What can I do, what can I say that will start us off right?_

John held her, and prayed that he would say and do the right things to assure her once and for all time that she was loved.

The oil had nearly burned away in the lantern before she finally stirred in his arms. Her dark lashes fluttered as she began to wake. He estimated it had been about five hours, maybe longer, since she'd drifted into what he hoped had been healing sleep. He hadn't relaxed his vigil until he was satisfied that the chill had passed from her pale skin. After that he'd dozed a little as he held her through the rest of the night and into the next morning, but mostly he'd continued to plan. He was ready to talk to her now, braced to respond tactfully to the wrath she would undoubtedly unleash.

Only she didn't stiffen as he expected; instead, she cuddled closer against him. He shifted slightly to accommodate her and frowned as he watched her, his concern increasing when her eyes failed to open. Although she might oversleep, he'd long ago learned from watching Marguerite awaken on the trail that she was instinctively alert to her surroundings even before she opened her eyes. _She's still not rested; she's lost her edge, the way we did before she watched Maria for us,_ he worried as he noted her sluggishness_. If I can't make it right with her, she's going to be in danger! I can't mess this up. _

"Mmm," her contented sigh hummed against his chest. _Warm. Safe_. She drew a slow, languid breath, and a smile played about her lips. "John," she murmured, surrounded by the scent that belonged only to the handsome hunter. "This is a nice dream," she sighed into his shoulder.

_Ah, maybe that explains why she hasn't slugged me yet – she's not expecting to see me, so she thinks she's dreaming!_ Relieved by the hope that her instinct for survival hadn't been dulled by emotional exhaustion after all, and pleased to see her so relaxed and unguarded after his worry over her horrible rigidity when he'd found her last night, he chuckled.

The vibration rumbled beneath her cheek and her lips curved upward a little more. "I like it when you aren't mad at me," she confided wistfully.

"I like it, too."

At his soft words, she opened her heavy-lidded eyes and tilted her face up toward his, struggling to bring him into focus. Her smile widened and she lifted a hand to touch his jaw. "You need a shave."

_It doesn't seem to bother her overly_, he thought in amusement, as her lashes drifted closed again, and she breathed another little sigh and nestled happily in his arms. _I almost hate to do this…_ "Marguerite," he prodded softly. For good measure, while she still wasn't angry, he tenderly kissed her forehead.

"Mmm?"

"You're not dreaming."

"Just a few more minutes, John…"

"Marguerite."

"Shhh. I'm dreaming you, like I felt you in the jungle yesterday," she whispered. "But you aren't really here. Let me have you a little longer."

Her wistful tone made him wince. _I'd best wake her before she says anything else she'd going to mad at me for hearing. _ "Marguerite," he said again. "Come on, love, wake up." He tapped firmly on her shoulder.

She lifted her head again, her brow furrowing. "John?" she whispered, opening her eyes once more with visible effort.

"Yes." He cupped her cheek, cherishing the chance to touch her, fearing it would most likely end as soon as he spoke the next words. "I'm here, my love. This is real. You are _not_ dreaming."

She tensed as she began to realize that the lean body cushioning her own was solid. Certainly the hand now caressing her face felt like John's familiar, work-callused skin. And his beard . . . she raised her hand hesitantly, once again touching the rough stubble along his jaw. "I never dream you unshaven," she whispered, growing more alert as the truth collided with her imaginings.

Despite his worry, his warm green eyes danced with laughter as he teased lightly, "Do you dream of me often?"

His voice was husky, gravelly . . . so . . . knowing! Marguerite came wide awake as abruptly as he'd first expected. Jerking her hand away from his face, she stiffened completely in his arms, distancing herself as much as she could. She wiped her face of expression, hiding away whatever feelings she might have inadvertently revealed, donning a mask of cool, haughty detachment that belied her physical position in his arms.

_She's so good at that!_ He regarded her with mingled respect and regret; respect for her self-control and regret that her life had given her so many negative reasons to develop such a skill.

"How did you find me?" she asked flatly.

"Fate," he answered simply, and saw a flicker of surprise in her icy eyes. He pressed his advantage with a romanticized version of yesterday's events: "The wind stole my hat and carried it almost right to your side while you were fishing yesterday afternoon. God meant us to be together, Marguerite."

For the briefest of seconds, she couldn't conceal her desire to believe in his words. But then bitter memory rose up, and with it came the pain . . . and her eyes went gray and cold. "I'm not going back," she said forcefully, pushing hard against his chest to free herself from his arms, hoping the sudden move would work. When it didn't gain her even a fraction of an inch of space, she knew that he'd been expecting it. Rather than fight a battle she couldn't win if he chose not to yield, she stilled. But she folded her arms across her chest and held herself tautly, eyes flashing as she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeming pliable despite being stuck in his arms, on his lap, and at the mercy of his superior physical strength. _He has the upper hand now, but as soon as there's a chance, I'll teach him not to man-handle me like this!_

He suppressed a grin, rather relieved to see that despite the wall's heart-in-ashes implication that she had no remaining reserves of strength, she had enough fire and steel left to defy him. _She might feel like her heart has crumbled to dust, but there's plenty of life left in my lady. _"I'm not going to ask you to go back," he promised solemnly, pleased to see that he'd surprised her again. _If I can keep her off guard, I can break through to her._

"You're not?" _Of course not. They don't want me back. _She buried the sharp pain that accompanied that thought. _But then why is he here? Just to salve his conscience that I'm all right?_

"No. This is a marvelous place you've made here," he smiled, and then said the words he knew she'd have the most trouble believing or accepting. "I'll stay with you."

Sure enough, her jaw dropped, her cool mask lost. "Wh-what?"

"We'll live here."

"We?" She was totally confused now. _What's going on here?_

He nodded. _Easy, John. Have to convince her. Calm and confident_. "I told you, we're meant to be together. Since you can't come back to the tree house, I'll stay here with you. Or if you don't want to stay here, I'll go with you wherever you want to go."

Totally baffled by this unexpected turn of events, she stared up at him and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. "You - you - you promised to follow Challenger to hell and back!"

He nodded again, solemnly. "Yeah. Been there. Done that."

_Well, that's true. But -_ "You would leave the others to fend for themselves?"

"For you, yes."

Marguerite couldn't believe what she was hearing. Yet there was no denying the honesty in his open face. _For me? But he despises me! This doesn't make sense._

This time he released her when she pulled away, knowing that he'd caught her attention well enough that she wasn't going to run – at least not yet.

She paced back and forth in front of the bed, brow furrowed with the intensity of her thoughts. _I must have misunderstood him. He didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's not possible that he would leave the others, not when he holds himself responsible for each of them – and with the Brat to look after on top of the rest, he couldn't just walk away from them. He's not the kind of man who turns his back on his commitments. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't… least of all…_ She stopped and looked down at him. "For me?" she repeated in disbelief.

He had lazily stretched his legs while he watched her, working out the stiffness of holding her on his lap for so many hours, and he met her searching eyes with a keen look of his own. "Absolutely."

She spun on her heel and strode away, ten steps, almost to the edge of the passageway, and he tensed, ready to surge up off the cot and chase her, but she turned and came back, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that she was still scowling, deep in thought. _Still got her_.

Marguerite didn't know what to make of his confirmation that he would abandon the others for her sake. _I'm missing something._ _What could possibly make him leave them for me? Unless... Malone has grown into quite a capable fighter, and Veronica's always been as good as John at hunting and tracking. If they promised to look after George, then John might feel obligated to look after me instead. That has to be it; he's still being his usual arrogant self, determined to do what he thinks is right. He doesn't think I can manage on my own, so he's appointed himself my protector again. Of course that doesn't explain why he's saying he'll stay with me here. It would be more logical for him to drag me back rather than saying he'd leave them to stay with me…but it's the only thing that makes half-decent sense! _Testing the only theory she'd come up with, she stopped again and faced him, hands on her slender hips, defiance in her very posture. "It took sheer dumb luck for you to find me," she said flatly, unknowingly echoing his very thoughts on the matter. "I have shelter and provisions, and I'm perfectly capable of defending myself if the need arises. There's no reason for you to leave the others. I can take care of myself."

He nodded gravely. "I know you can, Marguerite."

"You don't owe me anything."

He nodded, heart going out to her as she struggled to find a reason why he would consider leaving the others to be with her. But this was exactly why he'd chosen this tactic, so he could offer irrefutable proof that she was more important to him than anything or anyone else in his life, that he loved her more than she'd ever imagined. Patiently he said, "I didn't spend the last nine days looking for you because of some sense of obligation. I did it because people in love belong together."

Marguerite flinched as, unbidden, his face and his words that awful night sprang to life, intermingled with his invitation for a tryst on the balcony the very next day. _But he's not in love – all he wants now is the sex. He despises who I am, but he still wants my body, still wants his trophy._ She stiffened and summoned anger to overcome the pain. Her lip curled as she jeered, "Come on, Roxton, we both know better than that."

He frowned, taken aback at her response. _Now what's she thinking? Are we back to her pretending she doesn't love me? _ "We've been through this before, Marguerite. You're the only woman for me, and you've admitted that you love me, too. You can't deny it. I'll say it as often as it takes: You and I are meant to be together." _She has very little experience with love, and no experience at all with love that's offered without conditions; that has to be why she can't comprehend that I love her no matter what._

She couldn't believe he would go to these lengths just for the sake of having her as his lover. _He won't be satisfied. He wants more from me than I can ever give him, even as a lover._ "I still have secrets!" she pointed out sullenly, arms folded over her chest.

He crossed his own arms and studied her patiently. "There's nothing you could say that would make me love you less," he declared.

Marguerite stepped backwards, defensively. Flushing, she bit out sharply and angrily, "Don't say that to me! I don't want to hear it when it isn't true! You have no right to say such a thing when you -" she stopped abruptly, bit her lower lip and looked away from him. _I can't accuse him of being like every other man, because he's not, despite what he wants from me. He's so much more than any other man I've known… The fault lies in me, not in him._

Roxton got to his feet in one swift move, making her retreat again as she jerked her gaze back to him. He faced her, jaw clenched as tightly as his fists, furious not at her but at himself. "Finish what you were going to say, Marguerite! When I what? When I behaved like a first-class heel and let you down? When I didn't even ask your opinion, or show an iota of concern for how you were feeling or why you didn't want Maria in our home? You're right, Marguerite. I failed you. I promised you I would always be there for you. I wasn't. You should have been my first priority, but all I could think of was my own selfish ideas, and I drove you from our home. I thought only about myself, and how much I wanted a baby in our family."

Marguerite swallowed hard, staring up at him, shocked at the bitter self-condemnation and regret in his handsome face. She instinctively extended a hand to comfort him, unwilling to see him blame himself for her departure from the place they called home. Then she remembered again the shaft of agony that had struck her at the revulsion on his face that night and withdrew her hand again, hesitant to risk the contact. But she couldn't let him blame himself for what had happened. Instead of physical comfort, she mustered a tone of indifference and offered, "Of course you like the idea of children. You have a succession to establish, and even if you weren't Lord Roxton, you'd want a family of your own. I've seen you with children, and you'll no doubt be a wonderful father. It isn't wrong for you to want that. It just won't work with me there. You saw it yourself. I don't belong in a family." _There. I got that out without breaking into tears. That went well,_ she congratulated herself_. But will it help John?_

He knew her too well not to see her tension, so he shook his head and warned himself to calm down and be careful what he said. "You do belong, Marguerite. You belong with me. We _are_ a family, you and I. Maybe we'll have a child of our own someday, maybe not, but with or without children, you and I are a family."

She abruptly turned her back to him. "No, you were right about me back at the tree house." _I don't want to see that look on his face again, but I can't allow him pretend this issue of a child of his own doesn't matter to him_. Her gaze strayed to the back door. _He hasn't even glanced in that direction. Hasn't he seen it, or is he testing me? If I catch him off guard, I might be able to make it out before he can catch me. But if I run, he'll only follow me. No, I can't go until I've ended this once and for all. I have to make it absolutely clear to him exactly what kind of mother I'd be to his child. I have to leave him no choice but to admit the truth to himself._ _He loves children too much to risk a bastard child with me once he knows everything._ Coolly, as if it didn't bother her at all, she reminded him of the words spoken about her by more than one of her housemates more than once over the last four years: "I'm not mother material. I haven't got a maternal bone in my body."

His hands settled gently on her shoulders. "That's not true, Marguerite," he corrected, "I was angry and tired and scared about Maria because we couldn't figure out what was wrong with her. I took it out on you, but I didn't mean a word of it. None of us meant it, Marguerite."

She ignored her yearning to linger beneath his touch and stepped out of reach, turning to face him again, shoulders straight, determination in her tense posture. _If it takes the whole truth, then so be it._ "You may or may not have meant it, but you were right just the same. I once had a daughter, Roxton. I couldn't take proper care of her. She died before she was much older than that brat at the tree house. I killed her." _There! I've told him, and now he'll go away._

But he didn't. He just stood there looking down at her with such compassion that it nearly took her breath away. Not sure what to make of this inexplicable reaction, she glared at him and demanded hotly, "Didn't you hear me? You don't want me in your little family – I was a lousy mother! I'm not fit to have a future with you! Not to mention that I'm a murderer, a thief, a liar, a - a - a whore! I'm just plain a black-hearted, self-centered, BAD person!"

For some reason, that last adjective made the tall hunter grin, albeit grimly.

Confused, she fought the tears beginning to form in her gray-green eyes by emphasizing her feelings of indignation and anger instead. _He's not taking me seriously! He thinks this is amusing!_ "John Richard Roxton, this is not funny!" she growled, and she hauled off and punched him square in the stomach with all her might.

He absorbed the blow with a grunt and firmly caught her poised fists in his own hands before she could release the next jab, his smile gone. "No, it's not funny," he agreed gruffly, ignoring the physical pain she'd inflicted. "Marguerite, my love, you're not a bad person, and it's not right for you to go on believing you killed your daughter. You did everything anyone could have done to save her life."

Shocked, she tried to twist away. When he wouldn't let her go, she cursed under her breath and, frustrated, glared defiantly up at him and argued, "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"I saw the wall."

She stilled at his quiet statement, her eyes meeting his again in stunned disbelief.

"I know all your secrets."

Marguerite swallowed, staring up at him, suddenly trembling.

He bent his head and tenderly kissed her forehead, wanting to soothe her as he saw the doubts, fears and questions clouding her lovely face. "I found the wall while you were asleep, and it's because I know about your daughter that I told you I would stay here with you. Now that I've seen that wall, I understand why you can't go back home. Don't you remember," he added softly, "I promised that all your secrets would be safe with me when you were ready to tell me? Well, you were ready. You set it into stone for me to read, and I've read it. And there isn't anything in your life that makes me love you less, my dear; I can only admire you more, love you more."

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and shook her head. "That's impossible."

"No, it's not impossible," he corrected. "It's the truth, Marguerite. I love you."

She was still shaking her head. _It's not possible. It's just more of that fairytale nonsense. Or his sense of honor. Is he only trying to keep his word? That has to be it. It's not feasible that he still cares for me now that he knows who and what I am. It can't be anything more than sex. Or if it's not just sex, then it has to be that he still feels obligated because of what we did in that cave._ That made sense, so she threw it at him. "You say that because you think it's the right thing to say, because you think you should stand by your word. But you don't owe me anything, Roxton. You don't really want to stay with me. You'd end up disappointed in me."

"Probably," he agreed, once again startling her. He summoned a crooked grin. "I'll let you down, too, as I have before. Neither one of us is perfect. Love doesn't mean we won't hurt one another when we get angry or when we misunderstand one another. But love overlooks the defects, Marguerite. It cares in spite of faults, and forgives the failures, and shares the trials. It's not that I think I owe you anything, and I'm not just standing by my word, Marguerite. I definitely want to stay with you. I love you." He shrugged his broad shoulders and used his hold on her hands to tug her closer, shifting his grasp to pin both of her wrists to his chest with one hand and sliding his other arm around her slender waist. "And I know you love me, too. Will you forgive me for treating you so abominably back at the tree house? Will you forgive me for shrugging off your concerns when we found the baby, instead of talking to you about it? Please?"

Utterly at a loss, she once again found herself straining to stay as far away from him as his embrace would allow. "Talking about it isn't going to change my mind, Roxton. I won't go back," she said flatly. _How do I get into these situations with him?_

"I understand. I meant what I said. I'm wouldn't ask you to go back to the tree house with me, not now that I know about you losing a daughter before. I can't imagine what you must have been through after we found Maria and took her home, but I know it hurt you, and I love you too much to want you to go through that kind of pain again."

She blinked back tears at this unexpected empathy and looked away, unable to trust her voice. She felt his lips brush her forehead before he continued.

"We can stay here, and I'll help you finish making these caverns into a home. Or if you prefer, we can find someplace new. The one thing that's not negotiable is that we're going to stay together. I love you. I have to be with you, Marguerite. Wherever you are, that's where I want to be." He infused his voice with as much love and assurance as he could, and watched as his wary lady processed his vow. He'd unsettled her enough to make her rethink things, but not enough to completely strip away the mask she employed to shield her emotions. He waited with baited breath for her ultimate reaction.

_He's so sincere!_ _Is he right? Is this feeling between us, whatever label we give it, is it strong enough to survive knowing who and what I really am? He says he's seen the wall, and he says my past doesn't matter, but I've heard that before and the past always ends up mattering. Why should this time be any different? He says he wants to be with me, but saying it and having to live with me are poles apart. Sure he stayed this time when he could have left after he saw the wall. That doesn't mean he'll stay in the end. He makes it sound so simple – what if he changes his mind later? _

_On the other hand, what if he doesn't change his mind? What if he truly does care enough about me to be willing to stay? The odds aren't good, but he's been on the receiving end of my worst moods lots of times in the last four years without giving up on me. And now he's seen the wall and knows more about me than anyone else, and he's still here. He's so much… more… than the other men I've known… If there's any chance that this might be – dare I even think it? – that ridiculous, elusive happily-ever-after love – even the slightest chance… Of course it is only the very slightest of chances, I know that… But would a man like John have come after me like this, talked to me like this, if all he wanted was a lover? _

_Then again, it may just be his pride. Roxton hates to lose a trophy, and he's referred to me as a trophy more than once. He's a man, a hunter, who mercilessly stalks his prey. He could be toying with me; it could all still be a game to him. My own emotions could be coloring my interpretation of his. None of this may mean more to him than conquering a mistress he desires._

_Yet he's the one constant in my life. And haven't his attentions, his kisses, and our one day of being wholly intimate, been better than anything else I've ever known? If I do this because I love him, would I be breaking my vow never let another man use my body once it was no longer necessary for Parsifal to do what had to be done? Isn't it better to be his lover, to have his care for however long he's willing to keep me, than to have nothing at all? He knows all about me now, and he doesn't loathe me as I feared. He still wants me. I can handle that, can't I? _

_If he's serious about not going back, maybe it is possible to be together after all, at least here on the plateau, until we find a way off and he goes back where he has to settle down to produce an heir to carry on his title. If I choose this, it's not breaking my vow; it won't be something I have to endure, it will be my free choice. Surely it would be worth it to be with him for any amount of time… as long as there's no baby to contend with… Won't the memories be worth the pain when it's over, just as the memories of what happened in that cave have meant so much to me these last few months?_ Marguerite met his anxious gaze with all the courage she could muster. "Are you sure, John? Are you absolutely positive that you want to stay with me?"

Relieved, he released her hands in favor of sliding his other arm around her, too, and hugged her close. "You are incredible," he exclaimed. His grin faded in the face of her stiffness in his embrace. _She's still too tense, too leery of me, even though she's willing to try this. It's going to take patience, a lot of patience… and a lot of time. But I'm not letting this moment pass without giving her a foretaste of how it will be._ Somberly he smoothed back her dark curls and then traced her jaw line with a feather light touch. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Marguerite. There is no life for me without you. When you left, all I could think of was finding you, being with you again, holding you . . . Please say you can forgive me." He planted soft kisses down her cheek, over her closed eyes, down to her tremulous mouth.

Her arms slid up over his shoulders and her lips parted under his; he deepened the kiss but kept himself under firm control. _Now is not the time to overwhelm her with passion; I can't use our physical urges to sway her, she's too vulnerable. _Sure enough, when he eased back and her lashes slowly fluttered open, her green eyes were bemused and clouded with arousal – but she was aware enough for there to also be wariness in her expression. _She's definitely not convinced that I'm hers forever._ _I have to show her how much she means to me. If I mess up, she'll be gone, and I might not be lucky enough to find her next time._ "Forgive me?" he asked again, softly.

Marguerite ducked her head against his chest, hiding her face from him as she wiped away a stray tear with the back of one hand. _When he kisses me like that, I can't deny him anything._ "Do you even need to ask, after all the times you've forgiven me? I'd be an ungrateful wretch to hold one little temper tantrum against you, wouldn't I?" She grimaced against his shirt, annoyed with the tremor in her voice. _Come on, Marguerite! He wants a sophisticated lover, not an emotional wreck!_

John closed his eyes, relieved at her generosity and yet aching for her insecurity; he hugged her again. _This is all too intense. It's such a huge step for her! What can I say that might reassure her and ease things for her?_ "No, my love, never. What I did was hardly a minor temper tantrum. I neglected you for a fortnight, and in the process I broke all my promises to you," he said humbly. "I deserve to have you hold it over my head for at least the next ten years. I can't believe I didn't ask why you didn't want us to keep Maria. I can't believe I didn't pay enough attention to you to realize that you were hurting. And I especially can't believe I believed you about the wind making that noise that I followed to your room! What a clunker!" he finished on a deliberately lighter note.

She lifted her head at that, with a glimmer of a smile, appreciating his gesture. "It really was," she agreed sheepishly. "It was all I could come up with, though, on the spur of the moment."

His lopsided grin flashed as he chastised fondly, "You really have to break this habit you have of trying to handle every problem on your own. None of us realized what you were going through. If we had known, things would have been much different. We shouldn't hide such things from one another, Marguerite. You can talk to me about anything, you know."

She flushed and reached up to touch his cheek. "So you've told me before."

Her uncertainty was palpable, and his arms tightened around her again. "My saying so isn't enough, is it?" he asked thoughtfully. "Now that I've seen your wall, I can understand why you wouldn't take me at my word on that." When she'd trusted people in the past, they hadn't lived up to their word. _Or, most likely, to her hopes, either. I have to show her it can be different._ "The only way to prove it will be to try it, my love. That's the only way you'll know whether you can trust me, and the others too, for that matter, with the memories and emotions that are difficult to handle alone."

"I'll try, John, really I will," she promised, though she was uneasy with the concept.

"That's good enough for me." _Well, that went better than I expected. I thought she'd at least point out that lately we haven't proven to be very interested in what she thinks about anything. Better not press my luck; we can come back to it later._ "Now, when was the last time you really ate something – and I don't mean just a piece of fruit or some berries."

Relieved at the change of topic, she smiled at his stern concern, but admitted she was a little hungry.

John gallantly offered her his arm with a bow of invitation, and she grinned and tucked her hand into place. He escorted her out to the main cavern. "I'll build up the fire," he said when he saw how low the fire had burned.

"There's a woodpile through there," she pointed. She stepped away, sliding her hand off his arm so he could retrieve the wood, and was surprised when he caught it and drew her back for a quick kiss.

"Yes, I saw it earlier. Be right back," he promised. His large calloused hand stroked her dark tangles back over her shoulder before he strode off across the cavern, whistling to himself.

She stared after him for a moment, then, a smile playing about her lips, she selected an armful of the clay jars and carried them to the table. By the time he'd fed the fire, she had the basic ingredients for omelets spread on a cutting board and was already dicing onions and dropping them into the wooden mixing bowl.

Roxton opened his backpack and drew out a small bundle. "Here's my contribution to the meal," he grinned, and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a half loaf of Veronica's bread. "This is all I have left of the rations from home. It's a trifle on the stale side, but if we heat it up a little?"

She nodded. "I'm sure it will be fine. I didn't bother with any baking, so it'll be good to have some bread after all." She didn't bother to tell him to rewrap it and set it on the stones to heat. He knew what needed to be done as well or better than she did, after all his years of adventuring outdoors.

As they worked together to prepare the meal, he chatted idly about whatever topic came to mind. While she added the smaller ingredients into the mixing bowl he teased her about her stock of firewood being "girly", and boasted about the size of the triceratops he'd dodged several days ago. When she drew a thick-skinned squash-like root from another jar, he insisted on chopping it, claiming her wrists were too delicate for the job – ignoring the fact that both she and Veronica had regularly cut this vegetable without the assistance of the men – and, when everything was ready to be cooked, he made sure he was the one to carry the heavy iron skillet from its shelf to the fireplace.

He could see that she was edgy, torn by his presence. She craved his touch and his voice after her sorrow and loneliness, yet she was wary of her own need to be with him. She stayed so close to him as they prepared the food that her arm often brushed his. If he reacted, she pulled away with a faint blush, but was soon at his side again, as if drawn by a magnet. She flitted away to set the table, returning to the fireside between picking up plates and cups to almost lean against his side while she unnecessarily stirred the pan's contents yet again. She filled the cups with cold water, and came back to him again, making a show of checking on the food before she carried their drinks to the table. When the omelets were finished, they ate side by side at the table she had built. She perched sideways on her chair with her knee touching his beneath the table. By then he knew better than to show that he'd noticed, and she relaxed a little as their meal progressed, soothed by that slight contact with him.

There was no doubt that she paid careful attention to his every word. He was humbled by her quiet, watchful wonder at his open concern for her well-being, aware of her shy pleasure at each considerate gesture he undertook. It impressed on him anew how much her life had lacked the love he was now demonstrating, that these things he considered common courtesy should be so precious to her. He hadn't noticed it before, at least not to the extent he was seeing it now.

He led her to talk to him about the cave and its many rooms, taking care to openly show his favorable opinions about what she had accomplished. The beautiful brunette was soon aglow at his appreciation of the time and thought she'd devoted to this project. His approval of her hard work was obviously important to her, so he asked for details about how she'd managed to outfit the caverns, reminding himself not to scold her for breaking the rules. He was genuinely surprised – and impressed – to learn that she'd done so much of the work herself, rather than having undertaken the numerous risky solo trade hikes he'd imagined. Marguerite had an amazing number of unsuspected talents, some from her past, some from her observant nature on the plateau itself.

He was fascinated when she explained how she'd spent several afternoons at the clay bank of a creek about half a mile away, shaping the pots that now held so many dried foods. She laughed when he inquired how she'd fired them. "Sun baked," she said, eyes twinkling. "I learned to do it that way in Egypt," she volunteered, much to his delight that she'd provided details without his prompting.

Of course, there were things she didn't think to elaborate on until he asked. She flushed with pleasure when he commented admiringly about the workmanship of cords she'd used in lashing together the poles that formed the table and chairs where they were dining, but she didn't elaborate until he asked, "Just braiding so much rope must have taken an incredible amount of time, unless you purchased it from someone else?"

"There were too many other things I needed to waste buying power on rope, so I plaited all of it myself," she admitted. "You're right that it took a lot of time, but it was one thing I could make at home, mostly late at night. I collected the vines at the same time I was cutting saplings and bamboo to use for furniture frames, then took the vine home in my rucksack."

Roxton saw her vibrancy falter as she, too, realized she'd just called the tree house _home_. He was careful not to react. "And where did you learn to braid them together?" he asked, hoping his question would keep her from withdrawing into her more customary reserve.

She was puzzled that he had to ask. "You've got to be joking! Everyone knows how to braid. It's not so different from braiding hair. Besides, I've watched you, Veronica and Summerlee and even Ned spend hours weaving the cord to keep the tree house in repair. Challenger braids wire for some of his experiments and equipment. The Zanga braid all of their own cord, and they use so much of it that there's always someone working on something when we visit. They use a lot of different materials, everything from very thin strips of bamboo for the lashings on their weapons to thick jungle vines for the village fence."

"Did you learn to make all these different kinds of furnishing here on the plateau as well?"

"Yes, watching you and the others," she answered promptly. "And I did a lot of improvising, too. It took a little trial and error, but I think I had some good ideas." When he asked for an example, she explained that she'd built the doorway screens lightweight enough to be mobile. "The first one I made was far too heavy to move. But when I assembled one with bamboo instead of with saplings, I found that I could carry it without much effort, and I made some leather straps to attach several together to form a privacy screen for bathing."

He'd noticed those leather straps hanging on the screens, and had wondered about them. "Nice idea," he agreed. "Is that why you made the screens, for privacy?"

Marguerite shrugged. "Not entirely. You'd be surprised how much light reflects from this section of the cavern down those passageways and into the antechambers, and how the noise echoes, too. The screens cut down on those problems. Improved privacy is really only a side effect – except for the bathing screen part. That was intended."

She half-expected and half-feared some sort of double entendre from him. But although there was a definite twinkle in his dark green eyes, he refrained from his usual joking. _He's on his best behavior, I guess_, she decided, relieved that she didn't need to worry about how to respond to his suggestive sallies just yet.

As the silence threatened to become awkward, Roxton offered, "I like how you made each room so individual." Then, to her delight, he named who each bedroom was meant for, and assured her that the others would also be able to tell instantly – although that last bit unexpectedly dimmed her smile again. He was puzzled until he thought it through more carefully and realized that to identify the intended occupants of the chambers, the others would have to actually be here, which meant that the baby would undoubtedly come with them… and then there were the unresolved harsh words spoken to Marguerite. _When the opportunity arises, I'll have to explain how devastated everyone else was, too, when we realized we'd driven her away. And I have to be careful not to imply any expectation that she'll accept bringing Maria here to the cavern._

He guided the conversation back into safer channels by asking about the tapestries she'd hung in the smaller caverns.

Willing to be distracted from her darker thoughts, she explained that she had arranged a trade after running across some of Camelot's outriders a few months back. She hadn't seen Gawain in person, but she'd exchanged messages with him via the outriders when they returned with the tapestries she'd ordered. Eager to impart news about how the young king was faring, she willingly shared the content of her correspondence with the boy.

Noting the clear element of fond pride in her voice and expression and she told him about the changes Gawain had instituted for his people, he mentally chastised himself again. _No maternal instincts indeed! We must have been blind to have missed this._

Roxton paced his eating and kept the conversation rolling, having noticed that she ate more if she was talking. Once he'd seen to it that she'd consumed a decent amount of food, he leaned back in his chair and asked casually, "So will we be staying here a little longer, or do we head out today? I noticed you had your rucksack all ready to go."

She hesitated.

"If you don't have a preference," he added smoothly, "I'd like to stay a couple days before we move on. I've been on the trail from sunup to sundown these past nine days, and I could use a little rest while we have perfectly good shelter at hand here. Of course, if you'd rather hit the trail right away, we can leave as soon as I've re-stocked some of my supplies. I'm not so tired that we can't cover a fair distance today."

Marguerite shook her head, concern for him immediately outweighing any other consideration. "It's only good sense for you to rest. We can stay another day or two."

"Thanks. Any chores you'd like me to do?"

"No, there's not much that needs to be done. You go ahead and lay down." She gathered their dishes and started to rise, but his hand on her wrist stopped her.

"You will be here when I wake up, won't you?" he asked huskily, not bothering to hide the anxious vulnerability in his voice or expression. He wanted her to know how much he needed her, how much he wanted to be with her.

She swallowed and nodded. "I promise, John."

He accepted her word, rising from his seat. "Thank you, Marguerite. I meant what I said before. I'll go with you wherever and whenever you want. There's no one, nothing, more important to me than you," he said simply, and bending a little, he planted a kiss atop her dark head before he disappeared into his room.

Marguerite found herself smiling as she carried the dishes to the bubbling hot spring. Using a wooden dipper that hung off the side of a large wooden tub beside the pool, she scooped enough water to half fill the tub, then added soap flakes before she dropped the dishes in to soak. She rose to her feet and went to the fireplace to retrieve the pots and other utensils they'd used to cook the meal. Her steps slowed as she looked at the table, two chairs pushed back, Roxton's hat hung off a third, his backpack leaning against a table leg, his gun belt looped over the back of yet a fourth chair. _He's here. He's really here – and it feels so right to see his things cluttering up the table, to be washing the dishes for the two of us! This is how I imagined it would feel to be with him._ No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the pots and utensils clattered to the floor as she covered her mouth with one hand and wrapped the other arm around her stomach. _He came after me! He still wants me!_

Then he was there, his arms around her, holding her close and making the most ridiculous noises that shouldn't have been comforting but were, and kissing the top of her head and rubbing her back and whispering that it would be all right. _I'm crying_, she realized. _Why am I crying?_

He was asking her the same question, and all she could say was, "You're here."

He didn't laugh, and he didn't scoff or tease. He simply continued to hold her. When the inexplicable tears ended at last, he wiped the last traces of moisture from her cheeks with his handkerchief and kissed her forehead yet again. Then he busied himself with gathering the scattered kitchenware and carried it to the sudsy water, commenting about how perfect this cavern was, with both hot and cold springs. "You wash, I'll dry," he grinned, and she hesitantly moved to join him at the wash basin.

She glanced guardedly up at him as she immersed her hands in the basin and started washing up.

Armed with a towel he found on a nearby shelf, he took the first plate she'd cleaned and diligently dried it. "It's not the first time I've seen you cry, you know," he said casually, well aware of the way she was watching him from beneath her dark lashes. "It doesn't make me think any less of you, Marguerite. You know that, don't you?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes. _Tears are a waste of time, a weakness._ "It was stupid."

He shrugged and answered solemnly, "I don't think so. I'm actually glad to know that my being here means so much to you. And I'm glad that you let me offer you a shoulder to lean on, instead of shutting me out." He saw her brow pucker, saw her gaze flicker toward him just long enough to search his expression before she refocused on the wash basin contents. "Thank you," he added softly, sincerely.

That earned him another puzzled look. Uncertain what to make of his uncharacteristic response to what was, in her opinion, useless feminine vapors, she changed the subject. "You should be resting."

"I'll rest when we finish."

"You mean you'll rest when you're sure I'm not going to fall to pieces again," she retorted wryly.

He considered that briefly, and then quipped airily, "Yeah, that's about the gist of it."

Marguerite's head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing indignantly, but Roxton only grinned, winked, and waggled his brows at her. She couldn't help laughing. She shoved him with her soapy hands, and he protested, but his grin widened as he noted that her self-consciousness had vanished.

They finished the dishes in companionable silence.

Afterwards, he asked her to come with him into his room. Marguerite hesitated. He quirked a brow and held out his hand. "The work is done, so I'm going to relax for a while," he said. "If it's okay with you, I'd like you to keep me company. And no, it's not because I'm worried you'll start to cry again if I leave you alone. I'd just rather be with you. Please? You could tell me about the wall," he coaxed.

Her expression shuttered. _He can't possibly mean that the way it sounds. That's the proverbial 'come see my etchings' line men feed women to lure them in. _ _Oh no! Oh please, don't let him be setting me up! He can't expect us to do that… not now. Not yet._

Without a clue as to what she suspected, he interpreted her reaction as reluctance to open up about her past. Patiently, he coaxed, "Marguerite, you already did the tough part. I can't begin to fathom how difficult it must have been for you to record everything like you did. You wanted me to see the wall, didn't you?"

She nodded slowly. _John's been pretty open about what he wants, up until now. He wouldn't lure me into his room under false pretenses… would he? Has he lost all respect for me now that he knows about my past? Or am I over-reacting?_

"I want you to know with absolute certainty that I've seen everything you want me to see on your wall, so that you don't wonder whether I've overlooked something that will matter later." Yes, he could see by the way her chin came up just a little that he'd struck a nerve; she'd already wondered whether he was only still here because he hadn't really grasped the most serious revelations she'd drawn for him. Glad that he hadn't waited to do this, he wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand.

The brunette didn't respond, undecided. _He seems sincere. Is he really so different from the other men I've known? The only way to find out is to go with him. But if I do, and he tries to make love to me… if I give in now, will that be it? Will he leave me afterwards, instead of staying with me?_ She didn't think she could deal with him leaving so soon. But if she didn't give him what he wanted, he might leave anyway.

"Don't you want to make sure I understand? Come on, Marguerite, keep me company." _She just needs some encouragement; no doubt it'll be as difficult for her to talk about her past as it was for her to etch it into the stone._ _Contact. She's always drawn strength and reassurance from physical contact._ Since she didn't come to him, he moved to her side. He watched her look down as he reached for her hand, and when her smaller hand was enveloped within his larger hand, he met her wide-eyed, troubled gaze as she looked back up. "Come with me," he urged softly. "Come and tell me about your life."

He tugged, and she followed. Aware that she was balking even now, he smiled reassuringly over his shoulder as he led the way back into the room she'd created for him. Still holding her hand, he walked straight to the bed, released her hand, and sat down with his back against the wall. He motioned for her to sit beside him.

Marguerite acquiesced, but left so much space between them that he was taken aback.

_What's this? After how close she needed to be earlier, now she doesn't want to touch me?_ Uncertain what had changed, he eased nearer and tentatively stretched over to slide his arm around her tense shoulders, but she flinched away. _She's afraid of me? Am I asking for too much, too soon? Or is it the idea of talking about her life that's bothering her? _Testing his theory, he ventured, "If you'd rather wait until some other time to talk about the wall…?"

Marguerite looked at the uncovered wall opposite them, then met his gaze, torn between skepticism and… hope? He couldn't quite decipher her mixed emotions, but whatever it was, she was definitely uncomfortable. He had the distinct impression that she'd break into pieces if he said or did the wrong thing here. "Marguerite?" he prompted with a concerned frown.

"That's really what you want? That's why you asked me to come in here?" she asked hesitantly.

Unsure what she was really asking – what could be clearer than an invitation to narrate the etchings she'd made? – he nodded slowly. "Didn't I say that?"

"You want me to tell you about my life, so I don't have any doubt that you've seen everything I wanted you to see?" she elaborated, her silver-green eyes clouded with doubt.

He frown deepened. "Yes, exactly as I said before. Marguerite, what are you thinking?"

She shrugged, debating whether to come right out and ask about his expectations. _He's always saying he wants me to be honest with him. I guess now is as good a time as any. At least I'll know where I stand, and I can prepare myself for… whatever._ Brow furrowed, she studied him a moment longer before she asked quietly, "Do you really want to talk, or do you want to kiss me and… be with me?" Her pointed look down at the bed made it clear exactly what she was inferring.

"What?" he gaped at her. _She can't mean what I think she means!_

She gestured again at the bed they were sitting on together and forced herself to be blunt. "Do you really want to know about my life… or is that only an excuse to bring me in here? Do you expect me to have sex with you because you pretend not to care about what's on that wall?

He flinched and flushed as her meaning was confirmed; it left him reeling. _She thinks all I want is more sex!_ He leapt from the bed and backed away, shaking his head and waving his hands in frantic denial. "No! No, no no, NO! No, Marguerite! I'm not trying to manipulate you into my bed – well, okay, this is my bed and I did lead you right to it – but it wasn't because I wanted to make love to you – well, okay, you know bloody well what you do to me pretty well all the time, and I'll admit that making love to you is rarely far from my thoughts – but I swear that's not why I invited you to my room! After the way I failed you so badly, I wouldn't dream of – well, okay, I've dreamed of you and me like that, but you can't blame a bloke for that!" Aware that he was condemning himself, he covered his face with both hands and tried to get control of his scattered thoughts, then dragged his hands up over his scalp in agitation. _Lord, how can I make her understand?_ His heart thundered with the fear that something that had never even crossed his mind – that she might think he would only want _this_ from her! – could turn out to be a hindrance to their reconciliation.

He sucked in a deep breath, met her wary gaze in determination, and tried again. "The point is, I wouldn't expect you to – I'd never – well, of course I hope that eventually you'll want to be with me like that again, but – not today, probably not tomorrow and – Lord you make me so bloody tongue-tied! Marguerite, you do know, don't you, that I'd never force you to – well, there was that time I was infected by the blood lust – and I did kind of insist that you admit your feelings in that cave, but that was because there was no more time to wait – or at least, that's how it seemed at the time – but – No, Marguerite," he dragged in a another deep breath and closed his eyes, appalled at his incoherent rambling. _She's going to think I'm protesting too much! Lord, help me find the right words!_ _Who am I kidding? There's enough truth in what she suspects that I'm up the bloody creek without a paddle!_

He opened his eyes again, distraught, red-faced and barely able to look at her, positive that she'd never believe him after he'd sputtered out such a ridiculously rambling tirade, and doggedly tried one more time. "No, I didn't ask you in here and lead you to the bed to seduce you. I asked you in here because I truly and honestly do care about that wall, and I truly and honestly care about you, and I want you to know beyond any shadow of a doubt that my love for you will never be lessened by anything in your past. I'm sorry for doing anything that implied otherwise. We can sit on the floor if you'd rather? No, that won't be very comfortable." This time he ran only one hand anxiously through his hair as he hopelessly scanned the room for alternatives. "I could pull the mattress down onto the floor – no, that won't be any different than having it on the bed frame, will it? I could -"

He was silenced by her hand sliding into his once more, and he was surprised to find that she'd risen to her feet and joined him in the middle of the cavern, where his pacing had taken him. He sagged in relief when he saw that her wariness had dissolved into affectionate amusement.

"It's okay, Roxton. We'll be more comfortable on the bed, don't you think?" _The man is utterly adorable! How could I have suspected his motives?_

He clasped her hand tightly in his own and nodded, swallowing hard. "You do believe me, don't you?" he asked huskily, searching her face for any lingering sign of doubt.

She grinned, eyes twinkling with genuine humor. "Oh, I believe you, all right, at least about your intentions this time. You've been trying to seduce me for four years now." Gently she tugged on his hand and drew him back toward the bed. She sank onto the mattress and urged him to sit down beside her. "When you're on the prowl you're a lot smoother than this."

He flushed again and had to draw in another deep breath, heart still pounding as he uneasily seated himself beside her on the bed. "Not – er – on the prowl. I promise." He rubbed the back of his neck somewhat sheepishly and confessed, "You scared the daylights out of me, Marguerite. Now I really do need to rest." At her amused chuckle, he begged, "Please just talk to me, will you?"

So she did.

Still wary of his motivations despite the fact that his stunned response had reassured her about his immediate intentions, Marguerite stuck to very basic facts without much elaboration in her narration of the life she'd etched onto the wall. However, Roxton learned as much from what she didn't say as what she did, and suspected that once he'd earned her trust again, she would revisit her past with him more openly. She started with her childhood, but glossed over any real detail. She mentioned her longing for friends or family only in an offhand way, saying that lacking either one, she'd discovered the satisfaction of learning instead. As he'd suspected, her only bright memories of growing up were the times spent in Avebury and in Paris. And her life hadn't improved once she'd finished with boarding schools. Without the quarterly stipend from her adoptive family, which had at least provided for her board, education, clothing and a bit of pocket money, she'd not only faced the loneliness of her youth, but contended with the reality of finding a way to survive.

Sometimes she narrated her tale with indifference, completely unaware of how it chilled him to learn of the depth of poverty or danger she'd been in. It scared him most that these things were such an ordinary condition in her life that she hadn't anticipated his unease about them; to her, living with these risks – not only the struggle to keep a roof over her head and stave off hunger, but the rogues and thieves and lowlifes that had been her companions, the crime lords, the spies, the schemers and traitors, the assassins she had regularly dealt with and referred to as casually as she spoke of their housemates – these had been, and still were, if he could judge by her nonchalance, no more than the facts of life to be dealt with as efficiently as possible. He concluded that while she was aware that there was a vague "something better" out there somewhere, since she'd never known nothing else in her own life, she considered it normal to be unable to trust anyone, not even a husband.

But there were other times when her voice was halting, lower, as she shared more detail about events than the simple pictures on the wall could reveal. The very fact that she provided extra information in these instances told him she expected these things to trouble him, which meant they troubled her. To his mingled relief and bemusement, these times for which she assigned fault or blame to herself were about occurrences she'd obviously had no control over. Determined to assuage her fear of his condemnation or rejection, regardless of whether he thought it warranted her concern he held her closer and kissed her – lightly, reassuringly, careful to restrain any sign of passion. Where applicable, he pointed out that the fault lay with others, not her. In each instance he assured her that those things were all in the past now and had no bearing on the future, their future together.

The only bit of her past that she spoke about at length was her baby – and only then because of his insistent questions. This was the one topic he couldn't afford to delay discussing with her; it was too foundational to their current situation. Reluctant at first, she talked more willingly about her daughter as he responded with sympathetic interest and comforting support. He asked questions about that time in her life, and choices she might have made differently. Shrewdly, he led her to see that she'd had no options that could have made a difference. And since it was something she'd brought up as proof that he shouldn't stay, Roxton made certain that she understood that he didn't think less of her for her brief stint as a prostitute when she'd been trying to gather enough money to have a doctor care for her child. Instead of condemning her, he summed it all up by pointing out that it was the proof of his contention that she'd done everything humanly possible to save her baby. "You called yourself a whore for this, but that's not how I see it. It wasn't your lack of care that endangered her in the first place, my love, and you aren't responsible for her eventual death. It was the abominable actions of those two men that cost you her life. _They_ were the ones who prevented her from having proper treatment, not you. You did not murder your daughter; _they_ did."

Satisfied to see her eyes widen in consideration of this new concept as he stated it so bluntly, he was content that he'd started her mulling it over; it was good enough for the time being. He gently asked her what her daughter, Aimee, had been like. It was actually more difficult for her to speak of these good things than it had been for her to 'confess' her failures. Once she allowed herself to remember and to talk about her baby's dimples, dark curls and affectionate disposition, he could tell by the warmth in her voice and the dreamy pleasure in her eyes that she had loved being a mother, and had absolutely adored her daughter.

"She sounds like a wonderful child. And it sounds to me like you were a good mother, Marguerite," he assured her after encouraging her to tell him about the child.

"I've never talked to anyone about her before," she admitted, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "Thank you."

John hugged her, and when she settled against his side with a contented sigh and no sign of hesitation, he left his arm over her shoulders. After safely navigating the topic of her baby girl, she seemed much more relaxed in telling him about the events that had led up to her becoming Parsifal during the Great War – although her narration almost ended at the preliminaries when he asked if she'd had any special spy training.

She was quite adamant that he not refer to her as a spy, clearly detesting the term. "My loyalty was given, not bought or blackmailed, and I won't be lumped in with the insulting popular characterization of female so-called _spies_," she spat out the word as if it repulsed her. "Those ignorant novelists of the last twenty-five years have everyone thinking women engaged in espionage were all opium-addicted, Turkish-cigarette-smoking, seductresses that lounged around in silk unmentionables." She raised a warning finger, eyes flashing, knowing he was about to point out that she wore silk undergarments, and he heeded the warning. "I was an _agent_ for the Allies, not some traitorous bottom-dealer," she told him firmly.

He swallowed back his amusement at her vehemence and meekly assured her there was no danger of his mistaking her for one of those fictionalized floozies. "Remember, my love, I know a bit more than the average man about the kind of work you did. I'm sure you had to do some distasteful things, but can only honor you the more for doing what you knew had to be done. I consider you to be one of our unsung national heroines, Marguerite. I only asked about specific, er… _espionage_ training because I'm interested in learning more about your mysterious career as a triple agent."

Mollified by his care in using more acceptable terminology, and blushing faintly at his praise, she relaxed again and conceded, "Well, since you also bore the burden of being Parsifal, I suppose it's all right to explain some things in more detail."

As he'd anticipated, she was frequently vague about the particulars of her work, but she offered enough information that he once again found himself appalled at how she downplayed the odds she'd been up against both during and after the war. It wasn't that she didn't grasp the significance of the perils involved, because while she was willing to explain some things in greater detail for him, more than once when he ventured a question, her answer was simply, "It's safer for you not to know that, Roxton." So she knew the dangers perfectly well.

"How did you cope?" he burst out after one casually-related harrowing incident that she clearly considered as more of a lark than a hazardous assignment.

Marguerite frowned. "Cope?" When he pointed out that most people, men included, would have blanched, turned tail and run rather than undertake such an escapade, she was perplexed. "What, _that?_ That was just part and parcel with being Parsifal, John. Most of the time espionage work is worse than tedious, very routine, boring stuff. Of course there was always some element of danger because of the nature of the being an agent, but in general it was so monotonous that it was a relief when the opportunity for something adventurous happened along – and in that category, what I just told you about is nothing! Why, I've done far more exciting things than that!" And she elaborated with a relish that had his hair standing on end.

The truly horrifying thing was that he knew she _wasn't_ telling him about the things she considered genuinely life-threatening. She was only sharing a few "exhilarating" ventures – which meant that there were events in her life that had been even more hazardous than the ones she was using to prove her point. When he couldn't stand to hear any more for fear that he would end up folding her so tightly against himself that he'd hurt her, he insisted on a break for another meal.

Marguerite unsuspectingly agreed that she was hungry again. "I had no idea talking could work up such an appetite," she confessed lightly, rising gracefully to her feet and waiting for him to join her.

Once more they worked side by side to prepare the food, and he was thankful that she was as much in need of proximity to him as before. Hearing about her life was proving to be more difficult than he'd expected. He'd constantly fought to _not_ gather her into his arms so he could protect her from her past and from the world itself. The effort of listening without revealing his sentiments had taken a heavy toll. After the stressful session, it steadied his nerves to find her at his elbow so constantly.

To cover his own strain, John asked her about the smoked meat stored in the jars. Marguerite chattered on about trap lines and fishing, leaving him to marvel that her recitation hadn't phased her one iota. She was so at ease now that he couldn't help but realize, much to his bemusement, that she had no idea of the effect her list of 'exciting things' on him. In fact, as he looked back on the last few hours he gathered that she only feared his reaction to the areas of her past that troubled her, especially her lack of name and identity, and the loss of life for which she believed herself to be responsible. He could only suppose that she saw no reason to worry about his reaction to randomly revealed facets of what she considered mere day-to-day survival. She understood that he disapproved of some of her methods of seeking security, but didn't expect it to cause him any anxiety.

His conclusion was confirmed when they returned to his chamber after dinner. He was pleased that she didn't wait for him to initiate contact, but cuddled up at his side and slipped her hand into his without any sign of her previous doubts about his intentions. She resumed her commentary in the general vicinity of where she'd left off – but barely touched on Shanghai and her running battle with Xan's bravos, or the end of the Great War and the apparent German assassins she'd etched on the wall. She also waved off the question he asked about the percenters she'd borrowed from to finance the expedition, and he resigned himself to waiting for these details until a future discussion. Either these things were only incidental in her life, or she thought they would lead to discussions she was unwilling to have at this stage in their reunion.

Marguerite was more interested in talking about her quest for a method of reaching the Plateau, and the effect of being stranded here after they'd finally arrived. She openly admitted that being stuck in a lost world had thrown her off her game, as she phrased it. "The journey itself was what I expected, but living here afterwards… the longer we were here, the more backwards everything became," she sighed, brow puckered as she considered the remainder of her wall.

"Backwards?"

"Yeah, you know... the opposite of normal. Everything changed. Well, some of the rules stayed the same, but," she glanced sideways at him. "It seemed like a lot of the rules changed. When we started out, I understood each of you. Before we ended up living in the tree house I was using each of you, but it was okay because each of you was using me to get something he wanted, too. Except Veronica, of course. Why she ever took us in…" She shook her head in wonder and added, "Especially me."

"I was a pretty tough nut back then, too," he pointed out. "And Challenger was no picnic. Of course it's obvious why she'd take in Malone and Summerlee," he grinned, then added, "However, we're not talking about Veronica. We're talking about _you_, my dear."

Confident of his genuine interest, and now into the time range of her life with which he was familiar, the irrepressible brunette retaliated for his nudging her back on topic by embarking on a wildly exaggerated description of events since meeting him. It was possible that she was doing it only to avoid a deeper discussion, but he was content to simply enjoy seeing her so relaxed and open with him. The cave rang with their mingled laughter as she narrated one instance after another from their time on the Plateau, all from her own point of view, of course. Amused by his reddened ears and protests when she first embellished his heroism, she mischievously interpreted each successive story heavily in his favor, invariably turning him into a knight in shining armor whether she'd pictured him that way on the wall or not.

He enjoyed her lighter mood, and decided that playing along might build him some goodwill for the harder discussions they'd have to undertake sooner or later. The only thing he couldn't accept was her tendency to make light of her own role in their survival. He caught her off guard and caused her to blush each time he insisted on proclaiming his admiration for the courage and ingenuity she'd exhibited. Predictably, she laughed it off when he insisted she was as much of a hero as he, yet John could see that she cherished his praise and his recognition of her contributions.

When they reached the time not so long ago when she'd revealed herself as Parsifal to prevent Drummond from shooting him, Roxton pointed at her picture of him as a knight on the wall. "Now what's that all about? You were the one who protected me there, not the other way around."

She shook her head and insisted, "But it was you who protected me during the Great War. It was you who willingly besmirched your name and reputation and endured time in jail branded as a traitor, to give Parsifal the 'success' needed for the ongoing mission. You were watching my back for me long before we were formally introduced after that first meeting with George, Arthur and Ned." Her smile suddenly dimpled at him. "You were shielding me even when you thought I was the Black Widow of Vienna, not that you knew it at the time," she pointed out lightly.

"Ah yes, the infamous Black Widow of Vienna," he grinned. "All those old men you supposedly wed and murdered for their money. But I only count three possible husbands on that wall, my dear. Where are the others?" he teased.

"Only three?" she replied with a grin of her own. "I must've forgotten to draw one or two of them somewhere along the way."

He snorted in disbelief. "I knew you were having me on, talking about a fourth and fifth husband! You were too young to have collected that many!" His confidence was dashed as he saw her smile fade. "Marguerite?"

She flushed and looked away. "Well… truth be told…"

"You really were married five times?" he gaped. He'd been so relieved to count only three men on her wall that he'd thought might be husbands!

Slowly she admitted, still without meeting his incredulous gaze, "There were two others, both for the war effort, totally apart from the Black Widow's reputation. Neither marriage was legal, since they were each under assumed identities. One lasted a few months, the other only a couple weeks until I was able to gather the information I needed."

Roxton realized his mouth was still ajar and closed it, gathering his scattered wits. "Okay, five marriages. But the others the Black Widow was supposed to have wed…?" _Surely those were only fabrications!_

She shrugged stiffly and adopted a casual tone of voice, plucking nervously at the blanket beneath them. "Oh, you know how society works. Rumors are as good as reality, especially if there's a grain of truth in them." She chanced a glance at him from beneath her thick lashes. "I've been with a lot of men, John. But it was mostly… business, you know, doing what had to be done." She hesitated, and then, to be perfectly clear, said, "They used me, I used them." _Will he understand that I don't want that with him, can't do that with him? _She met his intent gaze and added more bluntly, "When the war ended, I promised myself all that was at an end, too. Since then, up until now, there's been only you."

_Only me._ His heart leapt. _I was right that she didn't do it with Kieran or the others!_ "Why?" he asked. "You were in as much danger here as during the war, weren't you?"

"Sometimes. But there were other ways to handle it here, and more time, too. I didn't need to use men to accomplish my ends. Sex wasn't necessary," she said simply.

His gut wrenched. _Necessary_._ Is she telling me she's never truly cared for the men she's been with before me? Necessary. Used. If I understand her correctly, it's no wonder she's been so skittish about being physically close since we climbed out of that bloody cave. And no wonder she resists me as she does. She isn't sure that what happened between us in that cave was more than mere sex, at least for me. Based on the vow she made to herself, at least I can be certain it was more than that for her, too._ Gruffly he promised, "It'll never be necessary with me, Marguerite. It'll only be because you want it."

A rueful smile ghosted across her face. _Only if I want him! As if there's ever a time that I don't want him! Doesn't he know how gorgeous he is? I know he knows what he does to me. Is he trying to play me? He said he wasn't trying to seduce me, that he just wanted to talk. Was he telling me the truth? Only one way to know for sure._ She met his gaze, and let him see the desire in her eyes, openly sultry for the first time that day. She didn't say a word, just looked at him.

Lord Roxton swallowed hard. _She wants me! Or is it wishful thinking?_ Her smile evolved into the wickedly heart-stopping come-hither grin he'd seen so often in his dreams but too rarely in his waking hours. _Okay, I'm pretty sure she genuinely wants me. But I know she doesn't trust me yet. She's testing me, that's what this is. Well, I won't use her like those other men did. I won't take my pleasure at her expense. And I won't let her feel guilty afterwards about withholding herself from me when she knows I want her. _ With slow deliberation, he smirked, puffed out his chest, polished his nails against his vest and regarded them with mock admiration. Smugly he said, "I was that good in that cave, eh?"

Marguerite burst out laughing and punched his shoulder. "Insufferable," she charged without heat. _He does understand, or he would have taken me up on it. I knew he was different._

He winked at her and, since his hat was still in the main chamber, he tipped an imaginary cap at her and waggled his brows. "I aim to please, ma'am. In fact, you just say the word and I'll please you until the cows come home."

Her eyes danced with mirth, and her gaze dropped to the lopsided grin she adored. "Do tell," she invited, enjoying their banter.

He rose to the challenge. "Well, I've been looking forward to trying that maneuver you mentioned after we escaped from that enchanted castle. I'm still not certain it's physically possible, but I'd be willing to give it a go."

That startled her into giving another bark of laughter as her gaze flew back to his. _He can't be serious!_ The twinkle in his dark green eyes assured her he was indeed still teasing. "I can't believe you remember that."

One large hand rose and caressed her cheek. "I remember everything you've ever said to me, my dear. I just didn't have the context to understand it all." He gestured to the wall. "We're fixing that now, aren't we?"

Thus not-so-subtly redirected to the task at hand, she sighed in exaggerated resignation. "Well, if we must, we must." Still, before she resumed her narration she squeezed his arm in gratitude for the light-hearted interlude. _He's not seducing me, _she thought again, awed. _Maybe there's hope after all._

He watched her, content with the progress they were making and amused as she returned to telling her ridiculously-slanted version of their lives. _As if the plateau's shifting planes of reality haven't been crazy enough in the last few months, she's got to further skew everything! But these past months have also been some of the most emotionally-demanding periods of time in the last four years. Perhaps humor is the safest way for Marguerite to deal with all the changes, just as humor helps us deal with the other fears we face each day._ Quite a few issues had been raised in the recent past that he would have liked to discuss with her, but he allowed her to gloss over them, preferring not to spark another intense discussion at the moment. She'd just shared something intensely personal that impacted directly on their relationship, and she'd accepted his presence in her life again, at least temporarily. He'd be careful not to misstep, and there would be plenty of time to talk in the future. For now, it was important to focus on letting her tell the wall history her way.

His returned his full attention to his lady as she quieted. She'd reached the most recent additions to the wall, and leaned closer to him to draw on his strength. Almost whispering, she confessed, "I couldn't look at her without seeing my Aimee, John. I couldn't hear her, without remembering how much pain Aimee was in at the end. I couldn't even let myself think of her as a 'her'…" her voice trailed off.

"I don't understand."

Marguerite swallowed and moistened her dry lips, laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped both of her arms around his arm nearest her in an attempt to ward off the effect of the tremors that cascaded through her slender frame. "She had to be an 'it'. 'It' came home with us. 'It' moved into your room. You all loved 'it' and gave 'it' all your attention."

Unable to properly hug her with her clinging to his arm, he reached across and gently stroked her hair as he murmured, "Ah. I see." _This is why she's never called Maria by her name; staying neutral was the only way Marguerite could handle the baby's presence, _he realized as she continued speaking.

"I couldn't let her be anything more than that. Taking off during the daytime helped, and I wasn't doing too badly until she started teething. Then I was… reliving Aimee all over again." She drew a ragged breath and huddled into his side, shivering. "I tried so hard to stay away from her. But I couldn't let her suffer, let you all suffer… I couldn't do it. I knew if I went up those stairs, she'd stop being an 'it', and everything would be worse. But I wasn't strong enough to stay downstairs and let it play out. And then you said -" She faltered to a stop, and turned into his shoulder, unable to bring herself to repeat his words.

Roxton cursed himself for his idiocy, for the thousandth time reproving himself for missing her misery. The pain in her voice, the way she clung to him, her trembling; each was evidence of how badly he'd failed her. "I didn't mean it, Marguerite, I swear I didn't mean it!" he said earnestly.

Determined to finish what she'd begun, Marguerite forced herself to go on, her face still pressed to his shoulder, her voice husky with unshed tears and barely audible. "I know. And maybe it was only because I was so tired myself, not thinking straight after… everything… But when you looked at me like you did, I thought you had finally admitted to yourself that I was loathsome, and I thought you would never want me again. I couldn't bear the idea that it was over, so although it felt like I was only grasping at straws, I tried to tell myself you were only exhausted, all of you, that there was no way you could know the truth, and that none of you would have said… the things you said… if you hadn't been dog-tired. I thought if I could only help you rest up a little, you'd see, you'd all see that she should go to the Zanga so we could go back to being like we were b-before. It was so hard not to fall to pieces taking care of her the next day. It was her, but I kept seeing Aimee . . ." She grimaced in dismay as her tears escaped despite her best effort.

He soothed her with caresses, kisses, and more of those whispered nonsensical-but-effective noises she was beginning to like. And once again, magically, his ministrations eased the aching of her heart.

After she finally relaxed against him again, John somberly admitted that she'd been right about their physical condition contributing to their verbal abuse of her that night. He tenderly wiped away the remnants of her tears with his handkerchief as he confessed, "We were so wrapped up in our own little world with the baby that we didn't realize you were hurting so badly. You were also right about us being dangerously tired. We sorely needed the extra sleep you gave us the next day. I'm incredibly impressed that you watched the baby for us, even though we'd misused you so abominably the night before. I'm immeasurably proud of you, Marguerite," he praised.

Then he went on to reveal that he'd seen her with Maria that next morning. "You were wonderful, my love, absolutely perfect with her. It was so right, watching you with her. I wanted to make you admit that you could help us take care of her, and I wanted to draw you back into the family, too, so . . ."

With brutal honesty that didn't spare him or their friends, he explained the details of their plan to trick Marguerite into revealing the truth to them. He shook his head in self-disgust as he related how they had all completely forgotten the way they'd spoken to her in the heat of the moment that ill-fated night - until her comment when she was leaving the next day had brought it forcibly back to their minds.

It was balm to Marguerite's wounded heart to hear how her friends had regretted their words, and to learn that they had all searched for her when they realized she was gone. But her misty smile dimmed and she stiffened in alarm when he told her of his vow that he would find her and bring her home to them at the tree house.

Hastily he added, "Of course, that was before I saw this wall and found out about Aimee, before I promised you I wouldn't ask you to go back. I meant it, Marguerite. I didn't tell you all of this so that you would move back to the tree house. We already forced you into an impossible situation once; I won't do it again. I understand why you can't be there, and I never want to hurt you like that again. The others will understand, too, once they know. As I said this morning, we can stay here quite nicely, just the two of us, or move on and find a new place that we'll make into a home of our own." She didn't look convinced, and he couldn't blame her. The best he could do was repeat, "I won't ask you to live at the tree house again, Marguerite, I promise you."

"That's good. I'm not going back," she said flatly, stirring from his side for the first time in several hours. She rose a little stiffly to her feet, her usual grace absent. "It's late, and I'd hardly call talking about all of this 'restful', so you still need to rest up. We could stay here another day," she offered in an offhand manner that she instantly knew hadn't fooled him a bit. She felt her face heat, and waited defiantly for his amusement or teasing.

He knew better, though. "Sure. Tomorrow we'll rest up and repack the supplies," he agreed lightly. "Goodnight, Marguerite."

Eying him suspiciously, she answered, "Goodnight, John."

He was careful not to allow even a twitch of his lips until she'd left his grotto. Then he lay back on his bed, hands beneath his head, ankles crossed, and smiled up at the shadows created by the flickering lantern light dancing amongst the stalactites. _She said 'we'; she's willing for me to stay with her!_

Despite this encouragement, Roxton tugged off his boots and soft-footed it to the main cavern again. He gathered some of the storage canisters and carried them to the entrance, carefully arranging them on the incline, then stepped back and checked from several angles. _I was right; there are enough shadows there that if Marguerite tries to sneak away she'll never see the jars before she runs into them._ The resulting clatter would be enough to wake him. He had no intention of letting her slip away again.

No sooner had he vanished down the passageway to his grotto than Marguerite emerged from the shadows of her doorway. A quick investigation confirmed her suspicions about what he'd just done. She shook her head and padded back to bed, wondering what he thought he was accomplishing by blocking the front door when he'd left the back door wide open.

xxxxx

The sound of axe and adze filtered through her dreams, and Marguerite groaned. _Now what are they building? Can't they ever wait for a more appropriate time of day before they start in with the hammering and chopping and - Wait, this isn't home… _She opened her eyes and remembered where she was and why she wasn't in her own bed – but before the familiar pain could sweep over her, another sharp _thwack_ reminded her that she wasn't alone here now.

She swung her legs over the side of her cot and slowly sat up, then stilled and sniffed the air. _Coffee? Is that coffee I smell?_ With a sudden surge of energy, she jumped up and hurried out to the main chamber. She spotted the coffee pot hanging over the fire, and sped up with a squeal of anticipation. Then Roxton's chuckle drew her gaze in his direction.

She stopped in her tracks. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Building you a proper table to work on your gemstones," he answered simply.

She stared at the stack of wood he must have chopped outside and hauled in already this morning. He was in the process of breaking the logs into boards, smoothing each one as he went, and it looked like he'd been at it for at least an hour now, if she could judge by the sheen of sweat gleaming on the sun-bronzed skin of his upper body and the pile of shavings beneath the workbenches he'd improvised. _And I should be able to judge, as often as I've watched him do this back at home._ "Why?"

He gestured at the table she'd built. "Well, that's fine for eating meals or working on our guns, but some of your stones would fall through the cracks, and others would probably get stuck. You'll be frustrated trying to do any serious polishing or cutting there. You need a smooth tabletop."

"No, I mean, why bother?" she clarified, gesturing at the cavern. _Doesn't he know I can't stay here any more than I could go back to Veronica's?_

"Ah. Because you've done everyone's room but yours. I know, I know," he held up his hand and silenced the objection she was about to make. "You may not want to live here now, but maybe some time we'll come back this way. If we do, I want this place to have any furnishing you may need, just like you made sure I'd have everything I might need, and just like you provided so many comfortable touches for the others. You were still sleeping," his broad shoulders shrugged, "So I figured I had time to throw together an acceptable table. If we stay long enough, I'll make you a proper bed and some shelves, too."

She was silent for a moment, touched at his thoughtfulness and unsure exactly what to say. In the end, she settled for "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he grinned. "Now go ahead and have some coffee."

_Coffee!_ She ignored the teasing glint in his eyes and spun back to the fireplace. Within moments she was cupping a mug with both hands and sipping the bitter-scented dark liquid like it was ambrosia. "Mmm. You brought coffee, you darling man!" she said appreciatively.

"Anything to please you, Marguerite," he laughed, and returned to work.

She leaned against the table's edge and watched him as she drank her coffee. _Could this day get any better?_ She'd always been fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his skin. She'd spent far more time observing him than any of her comrades suspected. _Of course, there's nothing to camouflage my interest here, so I'd best find something else to occupy me before he notices. He's far too sure of himself as it is, especially after I let him see how much I want him when we were talking yesterday. _ Since she was feeling rather hot and flushed, she decided that as long as they were going to be here another day, she might as well have a bath and do some laundry.

She went to her room for toiletries from her rucksack before she shifted a couple of the screens into place around the hot springs. She knew he'd paused to see what she was up to, and half-expected him to make some snide comment about having seen it all before, so she glanced over her shoulder at him as she fastened the last leather strap.

John waved the adze and smiled at her. "Enjoy the water," he offered, and went right back to planing down another newly-hewn piece of wood.

Half-relieved and half-peeved that he wasn't teasing her, Marguerite undressed behind the privacy screen and eased into the coolest part of the bubbling pool. Thankful that there was no need to worry about running out of hot water, she took her time washing her hair and cleansing away the grime of the last few days' travails.

Roxton was still toiling at smoothing the boards when she was done drying off and had donned fresh clothing. She collected her laundry and dumped it into the spring to soak while she combed out her hair… and discreetly watched him again.

It was lovely to have the sound of John's whistling and woodworking to accompany her activities, instead of the cold and silent loneliness of the last several weeks. She'd missed his company.

Roxton set aside the adze and strode over to the table to sweep up his canteen and take a long drink. When he turned to get back to work, his gaze settled on the dark-haired woman easing the comb through the last of her wet tangles. "You want some help?" he asked, a crooked grin lighting up his face as he waggled a brow at her.

She smirked back. "No thanks. I can manage. Do you have any laundry you need done? I'm about to do some wash."

He gestured to his chamber. "In my pack. Thanks!"

The day went on like that, ordinary chit-chat, casual banter, comfortable familiarity in everything they did. They ended the day with Marguerite mending several tears in his freshly-laundered shirts while he whittled some wooden pegs to use in assembling her table. When he noticed that she was having trouble keeping her eyes open, he set aside his knife and the peg he was working on. "We'd best call it a night," he suggested, stepping to her side and reaching down a hand to help her up. "The mending will still be there tomorrow."

Marguerite hesitated a moment, then took his hand. As she'd half feared, half hoped, he tugged her up and right into his arms. "Good night, my love," he said softly, and kissed her – not greedily or forcibly, but so sweetly that she would have given him far more if he'd asked it of her.

But he didn't ask it. It wasn't that he didn't want more; no, he held her closely enough that she had ample evidence of his desire. When he released her, she met his gaze and knew that, like after they'd been trapped in that cave, he was giving her time to adjust to the change in their relationship, allowing her to set the pace. _He's won't try to satisfy himself at my expense – at least not yet. He's willing to wait_. She'd almost forgotten how gallant he could be.

He searched her expression, smiled in satisfaction at what he saw, and stepped back. "Sleep well," he whispered with a last lingering caress of her cheek.

Marveling, she summoned a smile. "Good night, John."

She slept better that night than she had in a month.

xxxxx

One day stretched into two, became three, merged into four, dissolved into five… They hunted and fished and harvested more fruit and vegetables from the land around the caverns. Roxton finished a bed frame for her, and then cut enough straw for Marguerite to weave into a padded mattress. It ended up being big enough for two, she noticed, just like the one she'd built for him, but neither of them spoke of it. She drilled holes for support pegs in her chamber walls near the doorway, and he built and hung shelves to match her table. They worked together to assemble a couple chairs and a padded bench to place around the fireside, took turns cooking and cleaned up together. They talked about everything and about nothing while they did the chores or wandered along through the jungle, exploring their new territory.

On the eighth day she picked flowers while they were out setting trap lines along a nearby game trail he'd pointed out. He hadn't seen her do it, and couldn't help grinning when she reached into her rucksack after they returned to the cavern and gently lifted out a handful of bright blossoms. "What?" she asked defensively. "There's no reason we shouldn't have a bit of cheer in these dreary caves, is there?"

"I quite agree," he said promptly, and quickly fetched a cup, filled it with water, and brought it to the table for her. "Here you go," he beamed at her.

She frowned suspiciously at him while she arranged the flowers in the cup, surprised at his cooperation and his oddly satisfied expression as he watched. _He really seems to appreciate them. Odd; I always had the impression he thought it was a waste of my time to do this when we were at the tree house. Perhaps I was wrong? _She waited for a snide comment or a smirk, but it never came. In fact, she noticed him gazing at the flowers in delight more than once over the next couple days.

Marguerite, although still guarded, thrived under his undivided attention, and by the end of the second week, she was confident enough of him to come to him after a nightmare – although if the dream hadn't spooked her so badly, she might not have worked up the nerve even then.

He'd been sleeping lightly since finding her, keeping one ear attuned to his "trap" at the cavern entrance in case she decided to bolt, so he woke when she first padded barefoot into his chamber. She paused, anxiously twisting her hands, came several hesitant steps nearer and stopped again. He held his breath as she turned away, wondering what had prompted her to come in the middle of the night. Before he could call out to her, she whirled back toward him again. This time she made it all the way to his bedside, where she hesitantly reached down… then withdrew her hand… then sniffled and, quick as a wink, she prodded his shoulder with one finger. "J-john?" she whispered.

He propped himself on his elbows. "What is it?" he asked, alarmed as his new position allowed him to see unshed tears shimmering in her blue-green eyes.

She took one step backwards, her gaze flitting away from him, then back again. Her hands clasped uneasily at her stomach, she sucked in an unsteady breath and blurted, "Roxton, you s-said I could talk to you about anything… about m-memories and emotions that are h-hard to h-handle." She swallowed hard. "Does that include b-bad dreams?"

"Absolutely," he answered promptly, lifted the blankets and held out his hand to her. She climbed onto the bed beside him and curled up against his side, and he realized she was chilled and trembling badly. "Want to tell me about these dreams, darling?" he asked as he wrapped the blankets around them both and hugged her close.

Nestled in the safe haven of his arms, Marguerite shivered as she haltingly told him that he'd been in that arena in Lizard City, chained to Tribune, but instead of working with him, the former emperor had bitten off Roxton's arm. She clutched his hand, drawing his arm more tightly around her. "This arm," she whispered forlornly. "And you were killed by the other gladiators." She drew a wavering breath. "It was all my fault. I never should have suggested that Centuria use you in the arena."

"Actually, it was a very smart suggestion, and it saved my life. If you'll recall, the alternative was immediate execution." An odd tickling sensation distracted him, and when it moved he realized it was a tear, trickling down his ribs; she was weeping over his dream-death. "My odds of survival were much better in the arena, you know, even chained to Tribune."

Marguerite sniffled. "I know. But remember what he said afterwards? What if he had eaten you so he wouldn't be slowed down by being chained to human? It would have been my fault."

"Nah," he shook his head and gently kissed her forehead. "I'm pretty sure that was only his weird sense of humor when he said that. He's had enough human slaves to know perfectly well that humans can't re-grow a limb. But even if he'd taken a bite out of me, I wouldn't have blamed you for it, Marguerite. I'd have blamed Tribune." Another tear slid slowly down his skin. "Then I'd have taken the scoundrel's head off!" he declared with relish.

She snorted. "Sure you would have," she scoffed. "One handed?"

"You doubt me?" he queried in mock outrage. "I'll have you know I can outsmart any lizard that walks on two feet! And since I happen to be ambidextrous with weapons of all types, even missing one hand I could have won my freedom that day. Take a mace, now…" Lying there with the slim brunette at his side, he proceeded to wage a battle, dramatically waving his arms and kicking his legs as he acted out giant leaps about the arena and wielded imaginary weapons that confounded and defeated the opposing gladiators.

Before long he had his lady in stitches at his antics, and by the time he proclaimed final victory and rested his sword arm back around her shoulders, her silver green eyes were gleaming with merriment instead of fearful tears. Roxton winked and treated her to his tender grin. "Better now, my love?" he asked lightly.

She nodded, lips curving upward. "Yes, John."

"Good. So from now on you're going to come to me if a bad dream bothers you, right?" he teased.

"Oh shut up and go to sleep, Roxton," she retorted, and smiled at the responsive chuckle that vibrated in his chest beneath her cheek. "Good night, John."

"Good night, my dear."

She was asleep in moments. Satisfied, he drifted to sleep as well.

When he woke and found that one of his hands had ended up in forbidden territory, he nearly panicked. He'd been appalled earlier that week when Marguerite had revealed that she'd thought his last offer of a liaison on the tree house balcony had been a sign that he wanted her body despite his apparent dislike of her as a person, just as she'd misunderstood his invitation to his room that first night he'd found her here. She'd accepted his horrified, anxious assurances that he'd only meant that he wanted to spend time with her because he'd missed her. But if she woke with his hand _there_, her first thought was bound to be that he was taking advantage of her after all, like other men had in the past. Biting his lip and mentally cursing his traitorous body for its schoolboy reaction to the scent and feel of her, he set about easing the offending hand away without awaking her.

The second he'd succeeded in extricating himself from no-man's land, Marguerite rolled over to face him. To his chagrin, she'd been wide awake all along, and her eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth. "Scared I'll belt you for going astray?" she teased.

But this was too important to treat lightly. "No. Scared you'll think I don't respect you. Scared I'll do something idiotic and lose you." He regretted his prompt, somber response when his words wiped away her laughter. _Oh no! I shouldn't have said that! Now what have I done? _

She hesitated, then said, "So we're the same?"

It took a moment for the implications to sink in. Quietly, he asked, "What are you scared of?"

Her gaze skittered away from his. "I'm afraid I can't live up to who you think I am."

"But Darling," he cupped her cheek in his palm and smiled when she met his eyes again; "I know who you are, and I love you."

Her lip curled and she jeered, "What, happily ever after? For better or worse, with me getting the better and you stuck with the worse? This is real life, John. How long until you've had enough?"

"Never," he shot back firmly. "I'll never have enough of you, Marguerite. You don't believe me yet, but one of these days you'll find out what I already know: You're not a bad person, and you deserve better than what you let yourself have."

She blinked at him, astonished anew. _He said the same thing when we were trapped in that cave, but I was sure it was only because he didn't know the full story._ "How can you still say that, knowing all that I've done?" she demanded, one fist twisting a handful of his shirt into a knot between them.

He smiled tenderly at her and smoothed her sleep-tousled curls. "You were just dealt a bad hand. You did the best you could with it, and the fact is that your best turned out to be pretty lucky for a lot of other people. You ended up doing a lot of good for others, and you've lived to play another hand. From here on out, I'm going to make sure you're dealt a fair hand, and I'm betting you'll prove yourself to be a winner. I believe in you."

"Well, then you're more of a fool than I thought!" She pulled away from him, rolled off the bed and marched from the room.

He watched her go, appreciating the silk-clad sway of her hips, and called after her, "You'll see, Marguerite Krux; you'll see!" Then he lay back on his bed with pleasure, ankles crossed and hands beneath the back of his head, and smiled at the stalactites on the ceiling as he listened to her venting her temper on the pots and pans at the fireside. _She may not be ready to accept it yet, but we're making progress. She came to me about her bad dreams, and now she's admitted to me that she's scared. It's working! She's not happy about it at the moment, but it's working._

She inadvertently provided him with further proof of his progress two nights later when another nightmare left her too anxiety-ridden to fall asleep again. He welcomed her into the shelter of his bed, held her and listened while she haltingly told him about it, then comforted her as best he could. This time it was about her daughter, and humor would have been inappropriate, but it appeared that his sympathy and hugs were enough to sooth her. Afterwards, she slept in his arms until morning.

The next days and nights passed in quiet companionship. Roxton took discreet delight in the fact that his lady was bringing up more details from her past. "You know that scene on the wall," she would say, seemingly out of the blue, and then she'd tell him about it. Once she even asked idly, "Anything you were wondering about? You could ask me, you know… if you wanted to." He was careful not to abuse that privilege, but he did ask several questions to prove to her that he was genuinely interested.

The discussions were random, no apparent order to the revelations, but each was offered voluntarily, so he was thrilled. She was much more relaxed with him now for longer periods at a time. Although he knew there were still moments when she fought her inclination to run before she could be hurt again, his patient presence was slowly rebuilding the trust between them.

Midway through the third week, she tentatively suggested that they should find a high place from which to signal the tree house, so the others wouldn't be worrying too much about his whereabouts and safety. "You've never stayed away from them this long before," she pointed out, watching him from beneath her lashes.

"Yeah, you have a point. It might be a good idea," he agreed, glancing up from cleaning his Webleys to smile at her. "They knew I wouldn't come back without you, but you're right that they're probably worrying. Tomorrow we'll hike over to Krux Mountain and I'll let them know we're both okay and that I'm staying with you."

She nodded, eying him like she couldn't quite decide what to make of him. "Don't you miss them?"

_Ah. I wondered when we'd have this conversation._ "Sure. They're good friends, as close as family – actually, closer than most of the blood relatives I've met." He grinned, inviting her to join in his amusement, but she didn't smile back. _Okay, this isn't one of the topics we can treat with humor._ _It hits too close to home, perhaps._ He set aside his weapons and gave her his full attention. "Marguerite, of course I miss the others. But _you _are the heart of my heart. I'm staying with you."

She shook her head. "I still say you're crazy."

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, chuckling. "Yup. Crazy in love with you."

She didn't argue, just rolled her eyes, pushed her chair back so she could rise, and walked away.

He didn't press the issue, just let it ride. And he wisely hid his amusement when the next morning found Marguerite ready to go bright and early, feigning an indifference he didn't challenge. They made the trek to Krux Mountain in companionable silence until they reached the area they needed. It didn't take long to find a place where he could ascend to a height he judged to be sufficient for the mirror signal to be seen over the jungle canopy by their friends at home. She insisted on making the climb with him, which puzzled him until he saw the way her eyes lit up when the return signal flashed back to them across the distance. _She misses them, too_, he realized. He quickly sent a series of flashes.

"I said I'd found you and we're both safe. I asked how they're doing," he reported. "And here comes Ned's reply." He handed Marguerite the paper and pencil he carried for this exact purpose.

She jotted down the dots and dashes as he quoted them off, and gave back the small tablet for him to translate. He quirked a brow at her, deciding this was as good a time as any to confirm a suspicion he'd had from the first time they'd used this signal method. "You never learned Morse as part of your war work?"

"No, I didn't. Morse is too commonly known to be used for what I was doing. I learned other kinds of codes," she answered impatiently. "Come on, John; what did they say?"

He suppressed a grin and focused on the message pad. "Hm. Let's see, this part says thanks for contacting them… And this says… Challenger nearly blew up his lab twice last week…"

Marguerite laughed fondly. "Of course he did. It wouldn't be a normal week if George's experiments didn't go haywire at least once! What else?"

"Uh…" He hesitated, then flipped to the second page of notations. "Here, Ned says it takes him and Veronica twice as long to fill the wood box as it took me, and they're both sick of… um, laundry."

The wily brunette's eyes narrowed. "What are you leaving out?"

He tried to play innocent. "Why would I leave anything out?" He could feel his ears turning red, and knew she'd noticed. "It's nothing, Marguerite. Honest."

She looked away, silent a moment before she asked, "Is the brat okay?"

"What? Oh, sure, yeah, she's fine." He studied her for a long moment. _Is she really interested? Should I elaborate, or leave it at that?_

Her gaze flitted to his, troubled.

Yeah, he'd better elaborate. "As a matter of fact…" he flipped back to the first page. "Ned said Veronica took Maria to the Zanga village for a check up and she's perfectly healthy."

Marguerite nodded stiffly, but took pity on the concern in his dark green eyes. "You're not a good liar, Lord Roxton. I knew you were leaving something out. Now suppose you tell me what kind of laundry Ned and Veronica are so sick of."

Sheepishly he admitted, "Baby laundry."

She nodded again, folding her arms across her chest as she studied the jungle below them. "It's okay. You can hardly avoid mentioning her when she's a member of the tree house family." _Lucky brat._

Roxton tucked two fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him. _Does she miss them enough to want to go back yet?_ Thoughtfully he ventured, "You know, I need to trek over and pick up more of my stuff." She flinched, and he added, "One of these days."

"Sure." She shifted uncomfortably and frowned. "It's awfully hot up here in the open sun. I think I'll go wait for you down below."

He watched her descend, heavy-hearted for her pain. He couldn't leave her yet, not even for a quick run back to the tree house. And the truth was, she might never be ready to go back, not even for a brief visit. He glanced at the rest of the message on the second page. Ned had asked when they were coming home. Roxton rubbed the back of his neck, settled his hat back in place, and raised the mirror to tell the others that he not only couldn't give them a date, but that there was a very real probability that he and Marguerite would never return to live with them.

When he rejoined Marguerite a half hour later, she was leaning against a tree, idly examining a stone she'd picked up on the mountainside because it sparkled in the sunlight. She glanced up in seeming disinterest and asked, "Any other news?"

He shrugged, torn between amusement at her curiosity and compassion over her missing them enough to ask. "They've been sticking too close to home to have many adventures," he grinned. "I told them we've been busy resting up, but that we'd probably be venturing further afield soon. They won't worry if they don't hear from us for a while. I'm glad you thought of using the mirrors to talk to them. Come on; we were here longer than I expected and we'll have to set a good pace to check our trap lines and still get back before sunset."

She shouldered her rucksack and fell into step beside him. "Did you tell them where we are?"

He shook his head. "Not exactly. I said we were all the way 'round on the other side of the swamp, but I didn't elaborate. That's almost a two day journey, too far for them to travel with the baby," he added with a glance sideways at her. "They won't come looking, Marguerite."

She nodded.

"But they miss you. They said to make sure to tell you they're sorry. I, uh… told them about Aimee."

That earned him a glance from beneath her lashes, but she didn't comment.

He was right about the lateness of the day; it was sunset before they reached the caverns with the few smaller mammals snared in the trap lines. Roxton was aware that she was casting sidelong glances at him as they worked together to prepare dinner. She was unsettled by the events of the day, more tense than she had been in days. He decided to take a chance.

Once they finished eating and cleaning up, instead of giving her his nightly embrace and kiss, he turned her so her back was to him, and massaged her taut shoulders.

She sighed and dipped her head lower to give him better access. "Oh that's nice," she breathed.

"It was a long day. You're all knotted up. Want a back rub?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him, searching his expression. "Just a back rub?"

He nodded. "Just a back rub. It'd be better if you take off your blouse. But I'll do it either way."

She considered it briefly before she nodded. "Yes, thank you, I would like that."

He led her to the cushioned chair beside the fire, seated her, and kissed her forehead. "You won't be sorry you trusted me, my love," he promised, making it clear that he understood the step of faith she was taking. He walked around behind the seat and waited as she unbuttoned her blouse and slid it off, leaving her shoulders bared but for the lacey straps of her camisole. _I can kill two birds with one stone here. Not counting the times I've held her while she cried or slept, this'll be the closest physical contact we've enjoyed in almost two months. It's one step closer to regaining her confidence in me, as well as reducing her muscle strain_.

John settled his hands on her shoulders and located her over-stressed muscles one by one. Patiently he kneaded away at the hard knots he found, but she was holding herself too stiffly. "Relax, my love," he said softly.

Marguerite didn't answer; she wasn't certain of his intentions yet. But she did see the sense in his request. She took a deep breath and visibly loosened her posture.

"That's good," he approved. _I wish I could say she had no cause to suspect my motives, but she knows all too well how quickly things can get out of hand, and she's not ready for that, not by a long shot. If I rush her, it'll only make her more skittish. I can wait. She's worth waiting for._ His dreams these past few nights had been filled with visions of the two of them as they'd been together the day she'd finally admitted she loved him, the day she'd given herself to him without reserve.

A particularly sharp crackle from the burning wood snapped his attention back to the present. She was glancing up over her shoulder at him, one fine brow arched in question at his stillness. "Sorry. I was daydreaming," he admitted sheepishly.

She nodded and looked back to the fire as he began again. He alternately kneaded and smoothed his hands over her silky skin, slowly and firmly. He worked from the nape of her neck outward, sliding his fingers under the straps of her camisole only long enough to confirm that his backrub had been effective there. He shifted down a couple inches and repeated the same process again and again until he'd massaged down to her shoulder blades. By then she was humming quiet mewls of appreciation.

"All done," he announced huskily. "Better?"

"Much better. Thank you, John." She slipped her arms back into her blouse and stood up as he walked around to her side and offered his arm in escort to her doorway. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes as they crossed the cavern, thoughtfully considering the service he'd just rendered. _He's being a perfect gentleman again_, she acknowledged to herself, impressed.

He stopped at the opening of the passage to her room, grinned charmingly down at her, raised her hand from the crook of his arm and brushed it with a light kiss, and bowed his head to her. "Good night, Marguerite. Sleep well."

"Good night, John." She stretched up onto her toes and touched her lips to his.

He almost didn't respond, so surprised was he that she initiated the kiss. He'd expected his romantic hand kiss to replace their usual nightly buss. _Apparently, she still wants the kiss and the embrace. Well, who am I to argue?_ He hugged her close, then released her with a tender smile.

As he watched her walk down the shadowed corridor he wondered if it was wishful thinking, or if she really had lingered longer than usual over their kiss. Regardless, she'd given him one of _those_ smiles afterwards, and he had no doubt that tonight his sleep would be blessed with very pleasant images indeed.

He smiled dreamily as he returned to the kitchen area, collected an armful of jars, and carried them to the entrance to set them up.

Neither of them said anything else about the tree house or its occupants until almost a week later. They'd been fishing, and once they'd caught as many fish as Roxton deemed necessary, they went swimming in the same sheltered, stream-fed pond. They merrily splashed one another and played tag through the cool, refreshing water until they were both breathless. "Had enough?" he asked her, and when she nodded he boosted her up onto a boulder to sun-dry, then clambered up to sit beside her with one leg dangling over the edge, the other leg drawn up so he could rest his arm against his knee. "It's certainly a beautiful day, isn't it?" he asked, eyes casually scanning their surroundings.

Stretched out beside him, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the pleasant breeze wafting through the foliage, she smiled. "Mmm-hmm."

He looked down at the indistinct murmur, and feasted his eyes on the beautiful barely-clad brunette. Still soaking wet, her undergarments hid very little from his gaze. Although she had been testing him – not teasing him, but making him prove that he wouldn't do anything to seduce her – in this particular instance he was fairly certain she was unaware of presenting such a blatant temptation. There wasn't an ounce of tension in her perfectly rounded body, only relaxed contentment. Unable to resist touching her, he reached over and caressed a sun-kissed cheek with one knuckle. "Are you happy, darling?"

She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight and squinted up at him. "Yes. Are you?"

"Absolutely," he gave her his lopsided grin. "Once we smoke this catch, we'll have enough fish for a hike all the way to the Inland Sea. You interested in a vacation?"

She shook her head doubtfully, gesturing down at her ever-more-threadbare undergarments. "These are alright for a dip in a pond, John, but I don't think they'd stand up well to the saltwater of the Inland Sea. And before you suggest it, I told you months ago that I have no intention of skinny dipping."

He chuckled. _Now is definitely not the moment to tell her she's as good as bare when those things are wet, even in fresh water._ "Yeah, I remember. I still say – well, never mind that," he amended hastily as he saw her eyes narrow. "Anyway, we could always swing by the tree house and pick up the bathing costumes left by the Dillons."

Her eyes widened. "Those? We might as well just go naked!"

He waggled his brows and grinned from ear to ear. "If you insist."

She slapped his leg, and he laughed, immeasurably pleased that they had regained their former easy-going familiarity with one another. These past few days it had been almost like before they'd found - He suddenly blinked. _I mentioned the tree house and she didn't freeze up on me! Did she miss it? _He glanced down at her. _No, she heard it_, he decided as he recognized the tension now evident in her slender frame as she belatedly noticed the reference, too. "You ready to call it a day and go home?" he asked lightly, sorry to have ruined her mood.

"No!" She rolled away from him and to her feet, teetering for a moment on the curved edge of the boulder before she regained her balance. Angry tears glittered in her steel green eyes. "You promised you wouldn't ask!" she blazed at him, hands fisted on her slim hips.

His jaw dropped, then snapped shut as he made the connection. "No, that's not what I meant!" He scrambled to his feet, too, and reached out to her. "I didn't mean the tree house, Marguerite, I swear! I meant the caverns!"

As swiftly as her anger had flared, it faded away. She'd already realized the truth from his initial blank response. She nodded, twining her fingers with his and holding on tight. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, John." Unexpectedly, tears trickled over. She yielded to his tug, stumbling into his arms. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

He clutched her tight to his chest, heart pounding. _That was too close! What if she hadn't believed me!_ "Why?" he whispered against her hair. "What did I do that made you think I would ask such a thing of you?"

She shook her head, clinging to him as if she would never let go. "Nothing. You didn't do anything wrong, John, I promise. It's me. Everything's been going so well and I…" she broke off with a sob. "I'm such an idiot!"

He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. "You were waiting for something to ruin it," he finished her sentence. She nodded jerkily against his chest. "Sh, love, it's all right," he assured her, although he was more than a little shaky himself. "Everything is going to be fine. We're going to be fine."

Wrapped in one another's arms, they stood there on the top of that boulder until they both stopped trembling. When he was positive she no longer needed his embrace, Roxton slipped a couple fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up so he could study her expression.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "I know, I know; you think we should talk about what just happened."

He winked, drawing a wry smile from her in response. "Don't you think we should talk about it?"

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly.

"That's my girl," he praised. "Let's get off this rock and into some shade, shall we?" He jumped down to the ground and turned back to reach up and help her down, too. He'd talked with her a half dozen times now about trusting him with more of her emotions instead of concealing how she felt about things. He knew she was insecure about discussing such intimate matters, so he gestured to their neatly stacked clothing. "Shall we dress first?" _She'll feel less vulnerable when she has a couple layers of clothing on instead of only her chemise and panties_. Sure enough, she nodded.

He was fully clothed before she finished dressing, including both his gun belt and shoulder holsters, but he waited patiently. When she turned, he bowed his head and offered his arm. "Milady?"

Marguerite summoned a smile and accepted his escort into the shade beneath a nearby multi-layered, wide-fronded palm. She sat down, and he dropped to the ground beside her and reached for one of the hands twisting on her lap. _She always relaxes more when we're touching._ "Okay, milady?"

She nodded, thankful for the way his larger hand wrapped around hers; the contact was reassuring, a tangible proof that he loved her. Realizing her thoughts were wandering, she reminded herself sternly that he was waiting. They'd navigated this process often enough now that she knew he would continue to wait, not in an intimidating or impatient manner but indulgently, always concerned about what was best for her, allowing her as much time as she needed until she was ready to open up to him. After a long moment, she turned her hand so she could entwine her fingers with his, and met his steady gaze. "Roxton, where is home for you?"

"Where you are," he answered promptly.

She blushed and eyed him reproachfully.

"No, I mean it. I'm not buttering you up," he insisted. "Home is with you, Marguerite, wherever you hang your hat. A couple months ago it was the tree house. This month it's the cavern. If and when we ever leave this plateau, my home will be in whatever country you're in, and if you choose to live on a boat or a farm or a country estate, or in a city townhouse, whether it's on an island, a desert or a mountaintop, then that's where my home will be."

Images of locations she'd lived since her childhood flashed through her mind; strangely, when she pictured Roxton in those places, he adapted to the dives as readily as he did to the drawing rooms. She blinked and shook off the odd notion that he'd make himself comfortable even living in a Paris sewer. "That's all well and good, but what I meant was, when you think of home, what place comes to mind?" She held up a warning finger as he opened his mouth. "Apart from where I am, okay?"

He frowned. "That makes it a lot harder." He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I guess Avebury is the last home I've known before now. I suppose one always thinks of one's childhood house as a 'home' of sorts, no matter where the future leads. But maybe I shouldn't count it, because I've been more comfortable being anywhere other than Avebury since I was old enough to be on my own."

That surprised her. "Why?"

He shrugged. "It's difficult to explain. There are so many factors in how I think of Avebury: It's my family's estate. It belonged to my father, and should have belonged to my brother. Maybe that's it; maybe it's because in the back of my mind I'll always know it was never meant for me. And while I know I'm legally its master, my mother has set the tone there since my father passed away. She likes to have things a bit more formal than I like, entertaining and fancy manners, all that society stuff that women like so much. She started training Will and me straight out of the nursery, but I've never been too fond of the rules and proper behavior required." The hardy hunter squirmed a little and tugged at his open collar with his free hand, as if it were too tight, his eyes shadowed by unpleasant memories.

Marguerite smothered a smile; she could easily envision him as a rambunctious little boy resentful of being required to dress in his best clothes and sit still in the parlor. Actually, she could picture him as an energetic, handsome boy in his teens, glancing longingly out a window instead of paying attention to guests at afternoon tea… and she could also see him as the virile adult male she'd first met, barely abiding by society's strictures and much preferring to rush headlong into adventure. "Since you're the master, couldn't you change things to suit yourself?" she asked curiously.

He gladly refocused on the present, shaking off whatever memory had gripped him. "Yes, I can change anything I choose. But if I did that, my mother would be uncomfortable. Besides, I'm so rarely there, it's just as well to let her manage everything as she prefers."

She nodded. "I see." She sat quietly, lost in thought for a few minutes before she met his clear gaze again. "When you said 'home' before, you know…"

"Call it a day and go home," he repeated his earlier phrase.

Her fingers tightened around his. "Yes. Well, when you said 'home'… I thought of the tree house."

"Yeah, I noticed." He squeezed back, gently and reassuringly.

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry it's not you." He blinked and frowned, a brow quirked in query, clearly not understanding, so she elaborated. "When you hear 'home', you think of me. I'm sorry I don't think of you." She worried at her lower lip, forehead furrowed. Before he could decide how to respond to that, she smiled wistfully. "If it's any consolation, you're _in_ the tree house."

He rewarded her with his lopsided grin. "That'll do just fine," he agreed. _She associates me with being 'home'; I'll take that any day. It's a good pairing. _"What would have been home for you before the tree house?" he asked. Not so long ago, they'd have had a flat out row about such a question, but since he'd learned her secrets – and had stayed with her anyway, a fact that still seemed to amaze her – she was willing to answer almost anything he asked. Of course, sometimes it took longer than other times, but it was worth waiting for her to think it over.

Once it had taken four days, and he'd actually resigned himself to never receiving an answer before she'd voluntarily raised the topic again and given him a more than satisfactory reply, and his spirits had soared at her willingness to share information about herself that she'd never before entrusted to anyone. Asking her what came to mind when she thought of 'home' was far less intensive than probing into the nature of the séances she'd conducted in England or wanting to know more about the clues to her identity that she'd followed around the world. To show her that he wasn't making any assumptions, he added, "Did you have any place you could call home?"

She made a face and looked down at her lap, where the fingers of her free hand plucked at her skirt. "No, I don't think I ever had one… before the tree house."

He'd suspected as much. "But you don't want to go back."

"I can't. I won't."

_Ah. That's interesting._ He'd learned to listen to what she _didn't_ say, as well as what she did. "But you _want_ to go back, don't you?"

"More than I want anything, John," she whispered, looking down. "Except you."

_And there it is; the other big issue_._ She still can't quite believe that I belong to her, that I'm in this for the long haul. _ "Marguerite, you're not going to lose me. I'm not going to leave you."

"But I can't go back."

"That's okay. We'll make a new home of our own. Look, in our childhood homes, we find out that we're loved, and if we're fortunate in our family we find out that no matter what we do, our family still loves us. We push the boundaries and discover our limits, and when we become adults we move out to build our own homes. We know we'll always be welcome to come back, and there's always a special place in our hearts for that childhood home, but very few of us stay there all our lives. The tree house is like your childhood home, Marguerite. It's where you found out you're loved, and it's where you found a family. It's okay to be attached to it. It's also okay to move on. We'll miss it, but we'll fill our new home with love, too. It's not the place or the building materials that make a place into a home." He watched her bright green eyes, willing her to understand and believe what he was saying. "It's the people, Marguerite. It's you and me."

"Don't you want to go back?"

"I want to be with you."

She scowled at him. "That doesn't answer my question."

He frowned right back at her. "What do you really want to know?"

"You love George and Veronica and Neddy, don't you?"

"Yes." He kept a straight face despite her unconscious use of Malone's nickname.

"You left them."

_I knew this was what she was getting at._ "I left them to be with you. I love you more, and with a different kind of love. It's not the same. I won't be leaving you, Marguerite."

"What if… what if you find someone else you love more than me?"

"Impossible."

"Why?"

He grinned. "Because you fill my heart. There's no room for some other woman to squeeze in. I've chosen to love you, and only you, forever."

She tilted her head and considered his words. It was a mark of their progress that she didn't scoff at his declaration as she had a few weeks ago. His thumb stroked her palm as he waited; he was pretty certain this was the end of this discussion, at least for today. _This is one of those conversations where she'll mull it over for a couple hours or a couple days, until she's ready to talk about it again._

"Okay," she said suddenly, simply.

_As I expected; that's it._ "Good. Now, would you like to swing by Krux Mountain to talk to the folks at the tree house on our way home?" he asked with a grin, careful to differentiate between the two locations.

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think that would be nice."

"Okay, let's hit the road."

That night she came to him, not trembling or in tears over a bad dream, but hesitating in the doorway. "Roxton, would it be too much to ask…?"

He held the covers open without hesitatin, and she was beside him in bed almost before he could blink. She nestled close with a sigh, fitting her soft curves to his lean length and draping one arm across his ribs. "Thank you, John." He smiled in the flickering lantern light as she almost immediately fell asleep in his arms. _She's not hurt or frightened, and she's not testing me; she came to me just because she wanted to be near. She's decided to trust me again. As she says, could this day get any better?_

xxxxx

"Teach me the Morse Code?"

He looked up from cleaning her pistol and smiled over at where she was mending a tear on the sleeve of his blue striped shirt. "Sure, if you'd like."

"It would be good for me to know, don't you think? You know, in case something happened to you and I needed to signal the others for help?"

"It's pretty simple, really. Come sit at the table and I'll explain it to you as I write it out," he invited.

She set aside the sewing. "No need to use up your pocket notebook. I'll get one of Malone's journals," she offered, strolling toward Ned's room.

He finished running a bit of oiled rag through her gun barrel while she was gone. _That was way too casual. Wonder how long it'll take her to tell me why she really wants to learn?_

She was a quick study, and no sooner had he finished writing out the Morse system for her than she was asking him to give her words to tap out on the table for practice. "Very good!" he praised when her near-perfect accuracy proved she'd mastered the code. "It took me a lot longer to become that proficient." She glanced guardedly at him, then blushed and smiled. _That's not the first time she's thought I didn't mean it when I said she'd done well at something._ "Marguerite…"

She heaved a sigh of resignation and squared her shoulders, recognizing the tone and knowing a question was imminent. But she didn't stiffen or draw back as she would have in the past; she waited for it.

He grinned at this further evidence of progress and asked, "What happened to make you doubt my sincerity when I compliment you about anything other than how beautiful you are?"

Marguerite frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You accept it without question when I say you're gorgeous, but when I remark about how incredibly intelligent you are," he paused deliberately, and pointed at her as her lip curled. "See, you just did it again. You always scoff or act like you don't believe me if I'm complimenting your skills or your intelligence instead of your beauty, or you dismiss it with some light comment."

She was genuinely startled. "I do?"

"Yes, you do." Now wasn't the time to mention that he'd noticed it a time or two when Challenger acknowledged her proficiencies, too. He wanted to keep it simple and focused. He already knew the answer to this, thanks to the wall etchings, but he wanted his lady to think it through for herself. "Did I do or say something in the past that made you think I don't honestly believe you're smart and capable?"

A shadow flickered in her eyes, and she looked down. "No, John, you didn't do anything."

Keenly, he prodded, "But you know who or what did make you feel that way, now that I've pointed it out, don't you?"

She fidgeted with the pencil, not looking up. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

He nodded, content to let it go at that for the time being. _Only a month ago, she'd have hidden behind anger at my prying and refused to answer at all. At least now I'm not butting my head against a brick wall. We're getting there._ "Let me know if you want to talk about it, okay?"

She glanced up and smiled, appreciating his patience. _He's making everything so much easier on me than I ever expected it to be! He really is the most amazing man._ _Does he know how much it helps? He hasn't shown any sign of being discouraged when I can't talk about things right away, yet I know he won't bring it up again even if I don't._ Impulsively she promised, "I'll tell you when I'm ready to talk about it," with enough emphasis on the 'when' to make it clear that she wasn't just avoiding the topic as she had so often in the past. She was glad she'd yielded to the urge as his face lit with pleasure. Giving in to another whim, she pushed up from the table and leaned forward to plant a kiss square on his lips.

Caught off guard, John reacted instinctively; he raised one hand to the back of her head to hold her in place as he opened his mouth and kissed her back like a starving man. No more prepared than he was, Marguerite found herself on his lap with no memory of how she'd cleared her chair or rounded the corner of the table to get there. His shirt was already half unbuttoned and her hand was splayed over his taut abdomen, and he had one hand under her skirt, caressing up her inner thigh, when her whimper of pleasure froze them both in place almost simultaneously. Marguerite opened her eyes and stared into his smoky green orbs. His lips eased away from hers, tugging tenderly on her lower lip a moment longer before he released it. His hand slid back down her leg, emerging to straighten her skirt over her knees. She swallowed hard and shifted her hand off his warm skin, gaze still clinging to his. She could feel him bulging solidly against her hip, and knew what it cost him to hold himself in check when she'd been so willing only seconds ago; he was trembling with the effort.

"I'd get off you, but I don't think my legs will hold," she whispered apologetically, knowing her knees were too wobbly to support her after the overload of sensory input.

He managed a small shake of his head. "My fault. Sorry." His voice was hoarse, graveled with desire. "Just give me a minute…" He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and strove for mastery, his arms reaching past her on either side, hands fisted on the table behind her as he focused.

Marguerite held her breath and watched, marveling yet again. _Any other man would have kept going and taken me. He's so…_ She searched fruitlessly for a word to express the depth of her respect and love for this man. _I want him so much! He has to be frustrated. And it's hurting him. Why not give him what he needs?_ She reached forward and slipped her hand beneath his open shirt again.

Her wrist was caught in a steely grip, and she found herself staring into eyes gone dark and dangerous. "You're not ready yet," he croaked painfully, swallowed, and then carefully gentled both his tone and his grip. "I'm glad you want to – er – help, Marguerite. I appreciate it, really I do, but I don't want to do this while you have a single doubt. I'm all right."

She fought back a sudden onslaught of those accursed tears. "How do you know?"

He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. _How do I know I'm all right? That can't be what she means. What else could she be referring to? Ah… _ "How do I know you're not ready?" he clarified.

"Yes."

"Because this wasn't planned. You didn't do this on purpose," his voice steadied with every word, although the heat that simmered behind his eyes remained, "any more than I responded consciously. We could justify going ahead with this, but I want better than an accidental coupling with you, and I know you do too."

She nodded, although he could see that she was still torn. "John…" she whispered. "I hate that this is so difficult, that you're giving and giving to me, and I'm taking and taking…"

He silenced her with a finger to her lips and smiled. "Don't even go there. It's not one sided by any means. You're giving me something that I consider to be one of the most precious gifts possible, Marguerite: your trust. That's worth everything to me, absolutely everything. In these last few weeks you've shared a great deal of you past with me, and you've allowed me to share your present. We're working towards the future, one day at a time. There's nothing more important to me than building a good foundation for our future together. I don't want – er – temporary physical gratification – no matter how good it is – to endanger our future together. It has to be right for both of us; you understand?"

She nodded, stuck again by the fact that he was a nobleman in more than title. "I understand."

"Good. Now I'm going to take a quick dip…" Before he could change his mind, he grasped her hips and resolutely boosted her off his lap and onto the table. He rose with a self-deprecating grin, tore his hungry gaze from her startled, questioning face, took three quick steps toward the cold-water spring and jumped, immersing himself, boots and all.

He came up again like a shot with a startled yelp and heaved himself out of the pool, to huddle there with his arms wrapped around himself as he sputtered and shivered. "Bloody water's absolute ice!" he exclaimed, shocked.

Marguerite giggled and ran for a blanket, thankful for his ability to diffuse difficult situations with humor. _He's one in a million, my man!_

The next three days passed quietly in routine chores and casual conversation. Roxton was amused at how domestic their lives had grown; Summerlee had once commented that they acted like an old married couple, and hunter suspected that the label would now apply to more than just their arguments. Only an hour ago Marguerite had insisted he take a bath after he'd cleaned out the fireplace and dumped the ashes into the 'outhouse' – his last chores of the day. When he'd protested that he'd just bathed that morning, she had retorted indignantly, "You need your head examined if you think I'm getting into bed with you while you smell like that –"

The image of her blushing confusion as she broke off had amused him throughout the bath he'd just finished. She'd been sleeping with him for enough successive nights that he'd stopped escorting her to her doorway; instead they each changed into their nightclothes, then returned to the main room and enjoyed a last cup of tea by the fireside before he simply walked her to his own room. She'd snuggle next to him in his wide bed and sleep the night through without the nightmares that so often troubled her when she slept alone in her own chamber. With her safely beside him each night, he'd stopped setting those jars in the entryway, secure in the knowledge that she was in his arms. And although they occasionally woke in the mornings more intimately entwined than intended, neither of them acted on it – certainly neither of them had brought up sharing his bed in conversation, until now.

Sleeping together was another step in the direction he wanted to go with her, and he was quite prepared to continue this platonic cohabitation for as long as she needed. He believed she'd let him know when she was ready for more, and in the meantime he could hold her to his heart's content. Not a bad deal, in his opinion. It was easier than when she'd been testing him all the time. He was looking forward to teasing her a little about that tell-tale blush, though. _Who'd have guessed that merely saying the words would embarrass the Black Widow of Vienna like that? Just goes to prove that despite her reputation, genuine love is new to her._ _In fact_, he decided while he dressed in clean clothes after finishing his bath, _I think tonight would be a propitious time to ask Marguerite if she'd like to go topside and watch the sunset with me before we turn in._

However, when he emerged from behind the bamboo screens he saw that she was working at the table. He didn't want to interrupt and risk making her cross if she was in the middle of something delicate like cutting one of the stones they'd discovered and dug out from the clay bank of the nearby river that morning. He approached quietly, and was encouraged to note that there was no sign of her tools or the gemstones she'd washed that afternoon. "What are you working on?"

She looked up. "Practicing the Morse code," she answered. She gestured to his small pocket notebook on the table in front of her. "I'm using the old messages."

"Good idea," he approved, sitting down beside her. "Any problems?"

"Not so far. I figured out that you use just first initials for names, and I think also for locations?"

"You're right about our names. Show me the other symbols that you think are places," he invited, resting one arm across the back of her chair as he leaned nearer to see what she was working on decoding. She flipped back a couple pages and pointed. "Yes, you're right. That's a short form we agreed on for the Inland Sea." He reached for the pencil. "Here's the Summerlee River code… and this one is Krux Mountain… Challenger Rift… Layton Falls…"

She watched carefully, memorizing the sequence for each location before she nodded. "Got it. Hey, since you're here…" she shuffled the pages forward to the most recent messages. "I was wondering about this."

One glance and he winced. _I walked right into this one! I should have expected this and removed those pages_. He sat back ruefully. "I knew you had another reason for wanting to learn Morse. Very sneaky."

"All's fair in love and war," she grinned smugly. "I knew you weren't giving me the whole story about those mirror messages. I've told you before, John: you're not a very good liar." Her tone changed to one of concern. "They need you," she said. "And you know it."

"They'll adjust," he answered flatly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm staying with you."

Marguerite shook her head, annoyed with his stubbornness. "You should have told me what Ned said about how far behind they've gotten on the chores."

"He wasn't asking for my help, Marguerite; he was only blowing off some steam. He can handle this. He just needs to prioritize," Roxton said firmly.

She frowned at him. "You did enough work for three people at the tree house! How is one man supposed to handle all of that as well as his own chores? And Ned needs to write, you know that."

He jabbed a finger at the pad of paper. "Did you also read that George is helping, and that Veronica is finding that blanket contraption of yours very handy as she does the gardening? She's even taken Maria out hunting with her a couple times. All of them are pitching in to help do the things I used to do. Malone's not doing it all alone." He lifted a hand to silence her next remark. "Forget it. I'm not leaving you, Marguerite, not permanently and not even temporarily."

Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. "John Roxton, that brat won't be safe without everything being kept in repair and the three of them having regular rest! How can they do that without you?"

He eyed her, uneasiness rising. She'd been quieter the last couple days since their physical lapse at this very same table, more pensive, less inclined to seek him out during the day. _I thought she was feeling a little self-conscious or that maybe she was trying to make it easier for us both by limiting our physical contact, but maybe I've misread her._ _Maybe our physical need for one another scared her. Maybe I misinterpreted the reason for that blush. Maybe she thinks… Blast it all, who knows what she thinks? But this sure feels like she's setting the scene to get rid of me. There's only one way to find out if my fear is justified_. He straightened. "Marguerite, are you trying to send me away so that you can slip off while I'm gone?"

She blinked. "What?"

He heaved an inward sigh of relief at her astonishment, then braced himself as her expression darkened.

"You think I'd do that? Why the devil would I need to send you off on some crazy errand just so I could leave without you? I could have walked out of here any time this past six weeks and been long gone before you noticed!"

He smirked and motioned the cavern entrance. "No you couldn't. Until we started sleeping together, I rigged that doorway every single night, then put it all away before you were up in the morning."

Marguerite's eyes automatically followed his gesture, but her lip curled as she scowled back at him again. "As if I didn't know that! Not that I couldn't have gotten past such an infantile so-called alarm system if I'd wanted to, but why would I bother when I could have gone out the back door?"

Now it was his turn to blink. Faintly he repeated, "Back door?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Roxton! Don't tell me you didn't know about the back door. Do you honestly think I, of all people, would make a home somewhere with only one way in and out?"

Feeling sick to his stomach, he shot to his feet, knocking the chair over. "Show me!" he demanded, grabbing her arm and urging her up, too.

The slim brunette growled at him as she stumbled to her feet, shook free of his grip and found her balance. Perplexed at his behavior, she strode back into her chamber, stopping in the middle of the room and pointing, glaring up at him as he stopped at her side. "There!"

He stared at the apparently solid wall, then glared right back at her. She pointed again, and stood there with her hands on her hips, one booted foot tapping in irritation as he grumbled under his breath and stalked toward the rocky back wall of her chamber. "What kind of fool do you take me for? There's nothing here but the tapestry –"

He fell silent in shock as he saw the tapestry move. It was only a miniscule flutter of the fringe at the edge, and he'd never have seen it if he hadn't been this close – or if it hadn't been a windy day on the surface. He yanked the heavy material aside and discovered the opening to a ramp-like passage. It tilted upward at a much sharper angle than the entranceway in the main grotto. He could see the muted colors of the sunset glinting around the edges of whatever covered the exit at ground level. The faint light also enabled him to see crude steps cut into the passage to facilitate its use.

He staggered back a step, releasing the tapestry, then sagged against the wall alongside it, as stunned as if the wind had been knocked out of him, shaking like a leaf.

"John?" She was at his side in a moment, anger overcome by concern. "Are you all right?"

He cursed his own idiocy. _I never checked! I accepted the appearance without questioning it! Even when I brought in her desk and hung her shelves, I never went further in than necessary. We've spent so much time in my room and the main room that I've never given a second thought to a more thorough exploration of her room since that first night! How could I have been so negligent? Of course she had an escape route!_ He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her to his chest. "You could have gone anytime!" he choked out wildly.

"But I didn't," she huffed, struggling for breath within his tight grasp. "John, relax! It's all right!"

"I'd have lost you! I thought I was so careful! I can't lose you!" His eyes glazed over in panic, and his arms clenched even more tightly around her. "I won't let you disappear again! I can't!"

"Roxton, I can't breathe!" she gasped, struggling to inhale and also trying to free herself from his stranglehold. Worried about both her decreased airflow and his inexplicable anxiety, she butted her head against his chin in an effort to snap him out of whatever terror gripped him.

Startled, he focused on her and abruptly released her, steadying her with his hands on her shoulders as she sucked in air. "I'm sorry, Marguerite." He looked from her to the 'back door', then back to her again. "You stayed! You could have gone and you stayed! Why?" he asked, and he clasped her to himself again, but more gently this time. "You stayed!"

"Well of course I stayed!" she snapped, forgoing her freedom in favor of sliding her arms around him instead as she felt the shudders shaking his powerful body. _He's completely panicked! I guess_ _now's probably not a good time to tell him how often I really was tempted to take off._ "I love you!" A deep tremor shook him, and she was shocked to look up and find that tears were now streaming down his face. "John – oh please, John, it's all right! I promise I won't leave without you – I swear!"

He shook his head and pressed his face into her hair, still shaking from head to toe, but for an entirely different reason now. "I was beginning to think you'd never say it again," he wept.

"Say what?" Then she made the connection. _He's crying because I said I love him? _She remembered what he'd said the day he'd first found her, that her tears had shown him how glad she was to have him here, and how thankful he'd been to know how much his presence meant to her. Her eyes filled with tears, too, now understanding what he'd meant. "My saying that I love you means that much to you, John?" she asked tenderly, trembling that her simple words should have an effect like this on the strongest man she knew.

"It means everything," he whispered brokenly. "Especially on the heels of seeing that you could have walked away from me any time you wanted to. Marguerite, I love you more than life itself." He wiped at his face with one sleeve, and smiled tremulously at her, reluctantly loosening his hold on her.

She leaned back in his arms, but made no attempt to step away. Quietly, somberly, she declared, "I love you, too. I think I always have, and I know I always will." She reached up and brushed away a tear he'd missed. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Lord Roxton."

"I'm going to hold you to that, Miss Krux," he warned. Then he cupped her head with both his hands and kissed her.

Marguerite melted against him and responded enthusiastically.

When they had to come up for air, he searched for any sign of discomfort or regret, and was delighted – and a little confused – to see only pink-cheeked pleasure and yearning for more. _I've been waiting for her to be ready, but maybe it wasn't her that needed to be ready. Maybe it was me that needed to be sure. But if she's been ready to be with me, if she loves me, then why…_

His train of thought was cut off when Marguerite cleared her throat and ventured huskily, "John, you mentioned that you set up those jars every night and put them away again every morning since you found me… except when I was with you. Why were you so sure I'd leave?"

He answered without hesitation, shuddering at the memory. "You already left me once, and you went to great lengths to leave no trace for me to follow." The nobleman swallowed hard, his voice graveled with remembered distress. "You're too good at disappearing for me to make it easy for you to have a head start on me if you decide to leave again. I can't trust to blind luck to find you a second time, and I can't fathom life without you. I knew you were having second thoughts after we were trapped in that cave, and until you told me you still love me just now… well, I wasn't sure you'd made up your mind about letting me stay or not."

Marguerite was astonished to see the uncertainty in his dark green eyes. _He always acts so sure of himself, but he's as insecure as I am! I'd never have guessed this from his determination to win me over_. "I thought you had no doubts about us."

"I have no doubt that I love you, and that we belong together," he agreed firmly. Then his gaze wavered from hers. "But…"

"But?" she prompted, reaching up to lay her hand encouragingly against his cheek.

"Marguerite,…" _How can I explain when I barely understand it myself?_ He struggled to find the words, to organize his thoughts coherently enough to make sense of it. "I'm crazy about you, and most of the time I'm convinced that you feel the same. But it seems like for every step forward we've ever taken, we've taken two steps backward. I understand why you keep holding back, really I do – I understood how difficult it is for you to trust, even before I saw the wall and learned why. After you said you loved me in that cave and we consummated our relationship, but then we didn't die like we thought we would… I knew you'd need some time, that you'd distance yourself, and you did – I just didn't expect you to run away. I know," he held up a hand to silence her when she would have interrupted. "I know you ran away from the whole thing with Maria and the others as much as from me, but the bottom line is the same. You left me. I found you, but you didn't really want me to find you… and … I hurt you, unforgivably. Back at the tree house, I betrayed your trust and I hurt you."

He ignored her tiny mewl of protest at his graveled confession, and continued: "You know it's true. I promised you I'd always be there for you, and instead I failed you. Because of my thick-headedness and stupidity in making you think anything else was more important to me than you, I crushed your heart." Again he hushed her, this time with a finger to her lips as he continued, "You can't deny it, Marguerite. You drew it on that wall. I hurt you more than anything else in your life had hurt you, and you've borne so much already… Instead of making your life better, instead of giving you the safe home you deserve, I neglected you and betrayed your trust. So after I found you again… I was afraid you'd change your mind and leave me again. I don't think I'll survive if that happens."

She caught his hand and pulled his fingers away from her lips. "It won't happen again, John; not ever," she assured him, teary-eyed, rising up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She snuggled back against his chest and hugged him before leaning back and smiling, "You already asked me to forgive you about what happened before I left. That's all behind us now. I love you!" Her gaze was full of reassuring adoration. "And just so it's perfectly clear, I have no intention of going anywhere without you. I want to be with you, John."

"Then why were you pushing me to go?" he asked brusquely, remembering his earlier train of thought. If she really wanted to be with him, why would she urge him to go back to the tree house?

She shifted in his arms – not to distance herself this time, but only because she was suddenly uneasy. Green eyes focused on his chest as she traced his shirt buttons with one finger, she shrugged as if it didn't really matter. "Oh… it's not that I want _you_ to go… I guess I wasn't communicating very well. Truth be told, John, I was actually thinking maybe both of us should go… you know, together."

He stilled at her unexpected words, astounded. _So she wasn't trying to send me away; she wanted an excuse to come along! She's not tired of having me around or looking for a chance to slip away; it's just that she misses them. A little time with the others might be good for her. And I'd certainly like to check on them, and to see how much Maria's grown, maybe give Malone a hand catching up on the chores. She's ready to try a visit!_ Utterly delighted, he kissed the top of her head and smiled down at her. "Well, that's entirely different. I don't mind going back to visit if you're coming, too."

She chewed on her lower lip a moment, and then, with a quick glance upward through her lashes, she said quietly, "If you want the whole truth, I was thinking maybe we should go back for good."

He sucked in a sharp breath, and his arms tightened protectively around her again. "We don't have to do that." _If she's doing this for me, I can't let her. I won't let her face the pain of remembering her daughter every day, not again, not when it hurt her so badly the first time. _

She cast another fleeting glance upward as she continued to toy with the button closest to her fingers. "It's really the most practical plan. This place is way too big for only the two of us, nice as it's been to have you all to myself… And it would be dangerous for us to go further afield all by ourselves. We'd be asking for trouble, tempting everyone from the apemen to slave traders to attack two lone people. But if we went back to the tree house… There's safety in numbers… for us… and for them. Don't you… don't you think so?"

Roxton tucked his index finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to study her expression as her voice trailed away. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, and he could see the telltale pounding of her pulse point. _I haven't seen her this scared since that day in the cave when she finally admitted she loves me. She can't possibly want to do this for her own sake._

He remembered the anguish she'd revealed to him when she'd told him how much Maria's presence reminded her of the daughter she'd lost. _I'd rather never see the others again than make Marguerite endure that again._ And then there was the fine tremor running through the slender body that just barely touched his as she rested in the circle of his arms – _like the first day I found her. She needs the contact with me but she doesn't want me to see it. This frightens her, despite the front she'd putting on for my benefit. She's come a long way in the last six weeks, but this is too much too soon._ "I think we'll make it fine on our own," he said gently. "But a quick visit to pick up my things, and maybe those swimming costumes from the Dillons…" he waggled his brows and grinned, offering a slight change of topic in an attempt to ease away from the intense discussion.

To his surprise, Marguerite shook her head with familiar determination. "No. I think we need to go back to living with the others. It wasn't right for me to leave like I did. And it's not right for you to leave them because of me. We're strong together, all of us I mean, not just you and me. We need to go home."

"You're only doing this for my sake," he objected. "I don't want you to be hurt again, Marguerite."

She hesitated, wondering how to reassure him. "Please, John. It's not that it hasn't been good to be alone with you, because it's been incredible. I love you, and I enjoy every moment we have together. But it still feels as if something's not quite right, like… like we're in the wrong place. I think we should go home. I'm not saying I think it will be easy for me, particularly anything to do with… with the baby. But if we're together, then perhaps now… it won't be so bad." Despite her insecurity, she met his eyes. "I don't know if I can really do it," she admitted, "But I'm certain it's right to at least try. I've been thinking about it for days now, and I want to try, John."

_So this is why she's been so quiet these last few days. I should have known this isn't a spur of the moment idea, but something she's been working up to doing. I can hardly refuse when I've been asking her not to hide away from her emotions._ He nodded slowly, stroking a soothing hand down her arm. "All right, Marguerite. We can start back to the tree house tomorrow morning. But you have to promise me that if it's too much, you'll tell me. We can come back here the second you say so," he stated firmly. Promise me, Marguerite." He waited until she nodded her agreement, her gaze softening at his protective insistence. He nodded back in satisfaction. "I'll hold you to that, my love. The others aren't expecting us, so if we turn back tomorrow, it won't matter. We can always try again some other day. It doesn't have to be tomorrow. They'll be happy whenever they see us."

"Do you think so?" she asked. "Even if I don't fawn over the baby?"

"I know so. They won't push you about Maria, don't worry. They'll be as proud of you as I am for your willingness to go back, and they won't hold it against you if we don't drop by for a while or if we can't stay once we get there." He brushed a kiss over her forehead and smiled down at her. "We'd better call it a night if we're going to get a good start tomorrow."

She nodded, thankful that he was yielding. Then she noticed the baleful look he was sending toward the 'back door', followed by his frowning scan around the rest of her chamber. _He doesn't like knowing that I'll be in here with an unguarded doorway, even if it's only long enough to change into my nightclothes before I go to his room. I'll need to distract him. This might be a good time to 'fess up to another little secret._ "Yes, I'm ready to sleep. But you don't need to worry about getting a good start in the morning. It won't actually take us very long to get home. There's a shortcut through the swamp," Marguerite confessed with a deliberately impish grin back over her shoulder as she walked away from him toward the peg that held her nightgown.

The swamp? Startled at this new revelation, he followed with an irritated huff. "And exactly how did you find a shortcut through a swamp you know full well you aren't supposed to go into alone? One misstep and we'd never have seen you again! I thought you valued your life too much to risk it on a blind venture into such a dangerous place." He'd known she must've found a quicker way here than the obvious two-day hike in order to carry out her transformation of these grottos, but hadn't allowed himself to dwell on the possibilities. It was one of the topics he'd decided could wait until their renewed relationship was on solid ground before risking a possible major confrontation.

With an innocent tone belied by the mischief in her dancing eyes, she said lightly, "Oh, it wasn't a blind venture. I followed a raptor trail." One eye covertly watching the clenching of his jaw, she retrieved the silky garment and sat down on her bed to wait for his departure so she could change. But she couldn't resist adding, "I figured if there were tracks coming and going, the lizards must know a way through. They did. Isn't it marvelous? Instead of having to hike miles around the swamp, we can go almost straight across. There are a few twists and turns, but it cuts the journey down to only a couple hours. Much better than a two day hike, don't you agree?"

Roxton barely refrained from erupting into another lecture as it dawned on him that this revelation was no more than a diversionary tactic. _She must be trying to get a rise out of me to take my mind off that worrisome back door. She knows better than to go following a well-traveled raptor trail, not that knowing better has every stopped her from doing what she wants to before. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of taking the bait, though. Not this time. I just have to focus on the positive. We can deal with the rest another time._ "Well, that explains how you were able to accomplish so much," he said through gritted teeth. "A more direct route like that would give you plenty of time to work here and still return to the tree house before dark."

She nodded, eyes twinkling. "Yes," she agreed blithely. "That shortcut came in very handy for pulling the wool over your eyes."

He glared at her, struggling to keep a tight rein on his temper. "You think this is funny, do you?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "Don't you?"

Exasperated, he growled, "Time for bed. You need to rest."

Marguerite bowed her head meekly. "Whatever you say, Roxton. I'll just sleep in here tonight, since it's our last night." She started to lie down, but he caught her arm and pulled her to her feet. "Hey!"

"Not in here," he said gruffly. "Did you really think all this talk about the swamp was going to make me forget that back door you've only just pointed out? You'll officially sleep in my room with me from now on, not in here. Before we leave tomorrow morning, we move your bed and your gear over to my room. That way it'll be all set for next time we use the caverns."

Not all that surprised that he'd caught onto her playacting – _at least I avoided the over-protective tirade_ _this time_ – she laughingly protested as she allowed him to escort her out of her room, "Don't I have any say in the matter?"

"Not tonight. Not until I can make sure that door is secure. Maybe," he added smugly, "Never again."

She smiled up at him as he paused to light his lamp's wick and lower the globe. "Are you going to stay mad at me, or are you going to hold me?" she asked as she entered the passage to his room, staying right at his side.

He paused, tilted his head as if considering it for the first time, then puffed out his chest."I'm going to hold you, woman."

She laughed, rose up on her tiptoes, and brushed a light kiss onto his cheek. "My knight in shining armor," she cooed. "What would I do without you?"

Roxton grinned. "You'll never know," he said cheerfully, his humor restored by both the kiss and the characterization. "I won't be letting you out of my sight, Miss Follows-Raptor-Trails-Alone." His grin widened at her gurgle of laughter.

"Promise?"

He hung the lantern on its peg inside his grotto and turned his back to her. "I promise. Now change, please."

She laughed, and he waited patiently while she undressed and donned the nightgown. He didn't sneak a single peak. Too much had happened tonight to tease himself with a glimpse of her when he was about to hold her in his arms, in his bed.

"Ready," she said.

He whirled, scooped her up and carried her to his bed, making her laugh again. He juggled her in his arms long enough to strip back his blanket, and settled her onto the mattress with enough thrust to make her bounce, his antics sending her into another bout of giggles. Grinning himself, he proceeded to hop around the room tugging off his boots and clothes before he joined her in bed clad only in his long johns. Her laughter faded as he dropped the clownish act and tucked the blanket around her with genuine care. He slid one arm beneath her head to pillow her and drew her to his side. "There. Comfortable?" he asked.

She sighed and simply cuddled close, eyes closing as she relished the warm safety of being in his arms. It was almost enough to make her forget that tomorrow she would be facing being with the baby again – voluntarily! It had to be done, and it was her own decision, but as sure as she was that it was the right thing to do, she wasn't looking forward to it. _John will be with me_, she reminded herself as she felt the tension knot in her stomach. _It won't be like it was with Aimee. Neither John nor the others would just stand by while someone or something hurt this baby. I won't be taking care of an infant all alone this time_._ John will be with me. I can do it when John is with me._

Roxton lay awake, aware that although her eyes were closed, she wasn't sleeping. _She's not ready. This is going to be too much for her. We're never going to make it all the way home tomorrow. It's too soon. She's still too raw from sharing it all with me. She's come so far… I only hope turning back doesn't discourage her from trying again some other time. She'll see it as a failure. I need to prepare myself to react properly so that she learns that my love and respect for her can't be damaged if she doesn't succeed at something. No matter how close to the tree house we get tomorrow, I can't show any disappointment when we turn back._

It was a long night for both of them.

xxxxx

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she said triumphantly as they emerged on the tree house side of the swamp. Roxton had been in super-protector mode since before they'd started onto the faint trail into the previously untraveled area seventy minutes ago.

"Not so bad?" he sputtered, nearly beside himself with outrage at his mental images of her traveling back and forth alone on that path so many times. He loosened his white-knuckled grip on his rifle stock and turned to look back the way they'd come. There were multiple turns to the path, too many to easily remember. Several, if missed, would have landed an unwary hiker into quicksand. Twice they'd had to dive into underbrush to hide from lizards coming from the other direction, and once to conceal themselves from one coming up behind them. The very thought of Marguerite traversing that path alone was enough to tie him in knots. Furious, he whirled on her. He shook his finger at her and growled, "If you _ever_ cross that swamp alone again, I'm going to put you across my knee and spank you black and blue!"

She smirked, mischief lighting her silver-green eyes. "Why Lord Roxton," she purred. "I had no idea. Is that a promise?"

He blinked. Marguerite treated him to one of her most sultry come-hither smiles, and he couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him. "You're impossible!" he said, but he'd lost and he knew it.

Her smile widened to a genuine, affectionate beam. "You're easy," she retorted, and laughed as she danced away from his instant swipe. "Putty in my hands, Roxton!" she hooted.

He couldn't help grinning at her antics. She'd been teasing him outrageously all day, to his mingled amusement and concern. He'd insisted on moving her furnishings and few belongings into his quarters before they left, which had inspired all sorts of joking at his expense as she helped him. It was mid-morning before they'd finished securing her hidden household and started toward the swamp. She was full of spunk, reminiscing about various misadventures they'd shared with the years, her chatter filled with almost nonstop innuendo and sensual overtones. He was almost positive it was an avoidance tactic, something to keep her mind occupied so she wouldn't think too much about the upcoming meeting with their friends and Maria. Concentrating on her frolicking was probably enabling her to suppress her darker emotions. If he was correct, then the closer they came to the tree house, the less effective her flirting would be as a distraction. She'd have no choice then but to face her fears head on.

_She's running on sheer nerve already. She can't last much longer_, he thought somberly as they resumed the hike with the overly-energetic lady still talking nineteen to the dozen.

Sure enough, Marguerite's pace began to lag as they neared home territory, and her animated banter trailed off into silence all too soon for his peace of mind. But she kept moving forward. When they finally came within sight of the tree house her step slowed to a crawl and most of the color drained from her face. She chewed on her lower lip, staring up at the place that had been the first true home she'd ever known.

John matched her pace, amazed that she'd continued this far. She drifted a step nearer and slipped her hand into his without looking away from the lofty structure. Another step. He was beginning to think he'd completely underestimated her yet again! _We just may do this today after all_, he marveled.

Then Maria's cry split the air, a full-blown wail. Marguerite flinched and froze, her grip on his hand tightening exponentially.

"Marguerite?" he worried. _Here it comes!_

She turned panicked eyes to the tall hunter. "I can't do this!" she gasped. She'd just lost the faint color that had remained on her fair skin; she was now as pale as a ghost. "Roxton, I want to go back!" she demanded urgently, fiercely, his hand enclosing hers the only thing that prevented her from backing away right that second.

He was actually relieved, glad that the waiting and wondering was over. Now he could focus on helping her through the fallout. He hugged her gently, and cupped her shoulders to turn her so they could retrace their footsteps. "Okay. It's all right, Marguerite. Plenty of daylight left for us to make it home tonight."

But they hadn't taken a dozen steps when she stopped again. He halted, too, and studied her in concern.

Maria was still crying, the sound rising and falling amidst the usual jungle noises. The faint sound of Veronica and Ned's voices, words indistinguishable, could be recognized as well.

Marguerite, trembling, squared her slender shoulders. "Home is the other way."

"Home is where you are," was his simple response, the warmth in his green eyes assuring her of his sincerity and devotion.

She managed a wan smile, though it was brief, and glanced down to their joined hands. _John is with me_, she reminded herself. _I'm not alone. That baby isn't Aimee. This isn't then, it's now. This is my home, our home. We belong here._ She shuffled backwards and tugged him with her, toward the tree house. "Our home is right here, together," she said, and was pleased that there was only a faint wobble in her voice.

He nodded slowly and gripped her small hand in his, willing his strength to her. "Together," he echoed, so proud of her determination that he felt as if he could burst – and at the same time deeply worried that the strain would be too much for her. He gently guided her back toward the compound, moving slowly to let her set whatever pace she could manage.

Ash-pale and trembling, she clung to his hand and kept setting one foot in front of the other all the way through the fence gate and to the elevator. They rode it up in silence, listening to the baby, and now also able to make out Malone grumbling, "Veronica, can't you speed it up? I can't concentrate with Maria making that racket!"

And Veronica's sharp response, "Well, you could always help me!"

Roxton nudged the nervous brunette with his elbow, inviting her to chuckle with him at their friends, but Marguerite didn't seem to notice, her gaze locked on the view of the massive tree trunk visible through the open cage as it carried them closer and closer to the great room.

There was a muffled explosion. Following almost immediately they heard Ned's suddenly alert query, "Hey, if Challenger is in his lab, who's using the lift?"

Roxton made a mental note to have a talk with them about keeping a closer eye on the elevator. It should have been locked off if everyone was in the tree house. If he and Marguerite had been enemies, this wouldn't be anywhere near enough warning for preparing a proper defense. "They'll be waiting now," Roxton said softly, "Waiting for us when we reach the threshold." When the elevator neared the top, John looked down at his lady. "How about you? Ready, my love?"

She took a deep breath, moistened her lips, and glanced ruefully up at him from beneath her lashes. He grinned engagingly at her and winked. She summoned a faint smile, seeing his concern, and squared her shoulders again. "Ready."

John squeezed her hand reassuringly, and prayed earnestly that the others would recognize the undisguised vulnerability in her lovely face as the lift came to a halt. Regardless of all of his assurances, she was uncertain about her reception amidst her family – and despite her bravado, he knew she had no idea how she would react when face-to-face with the baby again.

It was a very domestic scene that greeted them when they stepped off the lift side by side. Veronica had been bathing Maria, the reason for the loud protests from the infant, until Ned questioned the identity of the elevator's occupants. Having plucked the baby from the tub Challenger had built for her, and deposited her dripping wet but safe inside a nearby blanket-padded packing crate, she was poised to guard the infant from the potential danger of unexpected visitors, knife drawn, before the lift basket ground to a halt. But the second she recognized Marguerite and Roxton, the knife dropped unnoticed to the floor. Her lips parted in surprise and she gaped at them.

Ned, half risen from his seat at the table, had his pistol aimed at them, but he, too lowered his weapon the instant he identified the new arrivals. Like Veronica, he froze and stared.

Roxton, at her shoulder, gave a little jerk of his head toward her, indicating that they should come and greet her. _Now's not the time to hesitate; she needs to know she's welcome!_ Their friends, to his relief, promptly took the hint.

The blonde huntress jumped forward with a shriek of glee and threw her arms around Marguerite in open joy. "You're home! I missed you so much!" She hugged Marguerite so tightly that the unprepared brunette gasped for air.

"Hey! Breath!" the brunette squeaked, although she smiled over Veronica's sun-bronzed shoulder and hugged her back with all her might.

At her words, the younger girl drew back, flushing, and Marguerite's smile vanished at the sight of the penitent tears overflowing from the lovely blue eyes of her friend. "Marguerite, please forgive me! I was awful to you, and I didn't mean it, really! You're the only sister I've ever had, and I love you!"

Ned leaned past Veronica to give the stunned Marguerite an awkward brotherly hug and a bashful smile of welcome. He nodded solemnly in agreement with the younger girl's sentiment. "Same goes for me, Marguerite. I was tired and worried and I unfairly dumped it all out on you, but I swear I didn't mean it. I couldn't bear to lose you… Sis. It's been awful lonely without you here these last few weeks. I'm glad you came home."

_Perfect. That's exactly what she needed to hear: apologies, love and home. Now she's getting a little color back_, Roxton approved, moving over to make room for Ned to step closer for a proper hug with Marguerite. He watched keenly with his arms folded over his chest, rocking back on his heels in satisfaction at the sight of his lady's sparkling eyes and wide smile as she thanked the others.

Challenger had come running up from his lab as soon as he heard Veronica's happy shout, and now he brushed Roxton aside and enthusiastically embraced the former heiress, knocking her hat from her head and startling her. "Marguerite, my child! What a fright you gave us, running away like that!" he admonished.

Roxton tensed, scowling at the eldest member of their party. _Not a scold! Not now!_

But Marguerite was laughing, turning to hug the professor back. "I missed you, too, George," she said affectionately.

His bristly brows rose, crinkling his forehead as he withdrew to hold her at arms' length and studied her for a moment. Then the ginger-haired patriarch gruffly offered his own apology. "I hope you know it wasn't truly meant, child, the ludicrous things we said that night. I hold you in the highest esteem, you know."

"Thank you, George." Tears of gratitude glittered but were successfully restrained.

"Yes, well . . . Just see that you don't go haring off on us again," he said sternly, then pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

Marguerite hugged him again and softly kissed his bearded cheek. "John will keep me in line," she assured him with a brief grin.

Challenger sent a piercing look toward the man in question and quirked a gingery brow. "Will he, now? That's good news. Welcome home, the both of you." He bent and scooped up Marguerite's hat. "I believe this belongs on the rack, doesn't it? You'll attend to that, won't you John?"

"Indeed I will, thank you, George," Lord Roxton shook hands with the red-headed scientist before he accepted his lady's hat. He set his rifle on the gun rack and hung up both their hats, a smile playing about his mouth as he watched Malone and Veronica fuss over Marguerite.

Challenger, having done all that he felt was necessary to welcome his stray home, noticed the sopping wet baby crawling out of the crate and undertook the task of completing her bath, prompting another howl of outrage from the sprite as he lowered her back into the tubful of soapy water to rinse her off.

That drew Marguerite's attention to the baby. She glanced quickly at John, and he stepped closer to her, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The little princess of the castle has good lungs," he commented lightly.

She nodded and stood still, not wanting to lose his touch; she looked toward Veronica. "H-have her teeth broken through?" she asked quietly.

The blonde nodded, beaming. "She has three that have broken through now. And she actually slept through the last two nights!" But she hadn't missed the interaction between her dark haired friends, and thanks to the brief explanations from Roxton during their mirror-Morse sessions, she didn't dwell on Maria but quickly changed the topic. "So tell us what you've been doing for the last month and a half! Have any adventures?" She caught hold of Marguerite's hand and towed her toward the table.

"Nothing to speak of," she shrugged, glancing back over her shoulder to confirm that John was following in the same direction. She was unsure what Veronica really wanted to know. _She hardly ever takes an interest in anything I've been doing. Is she just making small talk? _She seated herself gracefully on the chair Veronica pulled out for her, and discreetly studied her friend as the younger woman dropped onto the chair beside her.

The blue eyes widened in deliberate disbelief. "No adventures at all? You were still on the plateau, weren't you?" she joked with an easy grin.

Marguerite smiled back. "Well, what adventures have _you_ had in the last six weeks?"

Veronica pursed her lips as she considered the question, then chuckled ruefully. "You know, it _has _been unusually quiet in the adventure realm! We haven't been attacked, or had any weird storms, or bumped into any lost civilizations, or even had unknown visitors for… what? Almost two months now, isn't it? That's a record, I think."

"Must be." The brunette was having trouble focusing on the conversation with the baby still squawking in the tub, and her head was beginning to pound.

Roxton's hand settled on her right shoulder again as he leaned over and placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of her. So that's where he'd been! She smiled up at him and reached gratefully for the china cup. "Thank you, John."

"My pleasure," he answered softly, giving her shoulder a light reassuring squeeze before he returned to the kitchen area to make himself a cup of tea.

Ned joined the two women at the table, speaking up before Veronica could say anything else. "We've been going nuts trying to figure out how you hauled away your trunk without leaving any trail!"

The brunette looked blankly at the young reporter. "How I did what?" _How can they hold a rational conversation with this racket going on? Aside from raising their voices so they can hear one another, they're acting like they don't even notice it._

"You know," Ned persisted, "after you lowered your trunk to the ground, how did you haul it away all by yourself? I mean, we know you're pretty talented at everything, but that was a heavy trunk!" Ned waited for his answer as eagerly as if it was the key to solving all of life's mysteries.

Marguerite shook her head, curling both hands around her coffee cup to still the trembling in her hands as she tried to focus on what he was saying. "I don't know what you're talking about, Malone. I didn't lower my trunk to the ground," she frowned. "There's no way I could have carried that thing away!" More than a little overwhelmed by her warm reception, unsure about Ned was getting at, and increasingly troubled by the baby's fussing, she glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen as casually as she could, in search of Roxton.

He was already on his way back to her side, and he winked at her as he carried his cup from the fireside to the table. "I was wondering the same thing myself, since you didn't have the trunk at the new place." He seated himself beside her and reached over to drape an arm casually across her shoulders. Marguerite moved one hand from her coffee to her lap, then over to his leg. He was careful not to wince when her fingers dug into his thigh. _She has to relax, or this is going to end before it's begun._ "What _did_ you do with that trunk?" he asked lightly.

Ned's jaw dropped. "You've been with her all this time and you never once asked?" he gaped, unable to fathom how anyone could wonder about something for that long without seeking an asnwer. He reddened as the others laughed, and said defensively. "Well, it's a valid question."

"Indeed it is," Challenger contributed over his shoulder as he lifted Maria from the water and wrapped her in a towel. Instantly the baby's fussing began to quiet. Lowering his tone accordingly, George continued, "I've spent considerable time myself contemplating what means you might have employed to transport that much mass without assistance, particularly without leaving some evidence."

Marguerite was clearly baffled. "I didn't take my trunk anywhere. It was far too heavy once I had everything repacked." With Maria's caterwauling diminished, she was able to focus enough to gather that they were saying they'd thought she had somehow managed to spirit her trunk along with her when she'd left, and a genuine smile tugged her mouth upward. She glanced at John and saw that he was as clueless as the other three. She couldn't help but smile into his curious dark green eyes. "All I did was use a rope and tackle to winch it down to the lower level. I pushed it into the storage room with Veronica's parents' things. Didn't anyone notice it was in there?"

The other four adults exchanged incredulous looks. "Now why the devil didn't any of us think to look there?" Challenger muttered to himself, as he tucked the still-whimpering baby to his shoulder and absently patted her back. "It makes perfect sense!"

"Of course it does," Marguerite said airily, and added, "Everything I do makes perfect sense!"

John chuckled, but the others just stared at her for a long moment.

"Come on, it was a joke!" she chided lightly, although her grip on John's leg under the table tightened at their obvious uncertainty over how to respond to her. _They would have reacted with laughter right along with John before everything went wrong. Is this going to work, or are things too strained between us now to ever be the same?_

Once again suppressing a wince, Roxton leaned over and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. "It's okay," he assured her, still smiling. "They wanted to laugh. They're just worried it'll make you mad." At her questioning look, he teased, "You have to admit it would have been a possibility before."

A smile slowly curved her lips again. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

Challenger blinked, and Veronica and Ned exchanged startled looks at the casual exchange between the dark-haired couple. "Well, I'll be…" the young reporter murmured, intrigued as he watched the nobleman lean back in his chair again as if there were nothing extraordinary about her admission.

Ignoring their puzzlement, John enthused, "Wait until you hear what Marguerite's been up to this past year," and launched into a general description of the cavern's layout and features. "You'll have to come see for yourselves soon, but when we go I'd like to take along a portion of the gunpowder and medicines to store there, and maybe some more of the dried foods as well. Marguerite was right that it'd be a perfect backup place for us to maintain."

The conversation relaxed into familiar territory as Challenger, Ned and Veronica asked interested questions about how she'd found the cavern and what she'd done to prepare it for habitation. John fielded most of the questions, conferring with his lady only occasionally so that the immediate pressure of their friends' attention was less acute for her. The baby's continuing presence was wearing on her, if he could judge by the way her nails continued to dig into his thigh.

When Veronica finally took Maria from Challenger and carried her off for her nap, Marguerite relaxed visibly, much to John's relief. He discreetly rubbed his aching leg.

She was feeling decidedly more at ease by the time the group finished discussing the defensibility of the cavern and its possible future uses. The conversation drifted to Challenger's latest improvements for the tree house's security and comfort, and she followed the exchange with interest until Veronica tapped her shoulder and leaned closer.

"Are you staying or just visiting?" the younger woman asked softly. "No pressure either way," she added quickly as Marguerite tensed. "In fact, before you answer me I'd like to say that your room is yours, regardless of whether you're here permanently or whether you come and go, and no matter how often or long you may be away. I want you to know that you have a home here with me whenever you want or need it. You're always going to be welcome here, Marguerite, even if you can't stay this time… or…" she swallowed hard before finishing bravely, "or ever."

_She means it! After everything I've done wrong since meeting her – despite the things she knows about me and the things she suspects – she genuinely wants me here! And Roxton was right; she understands that I might not be able to stay, and she still accepts me! _Tears glittered on Marguerite's thick dark lashes. "You really…?" she managed tremulously.

"I really _love_ you," Veronica answered huskily. "And I'm proud to call you both 'friend' and 'sister', Marguerite. We're members of the same family, you and me. We may not have anyone else, but we have each other."

"Hey!"

The women hadn't realized that the men had fallen silent until Ned's protest startled them; they were surprised to find all three men frowning at them.

"What do you mean you have no one else?" Ned gestured to himself and the older men. "What are we, chopped liver? What do we have to do to qualify for this family of yours, anyway?" he demanded indignantly.

Veronica wiped self-consciously at her damp cheeks and glanced back to her best friend to find that Marguerite's tear-drenched gaze had sought Roxton in amazement.

His smirked at her, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his chair back on its rear legs. "I told you so," he said smugly. "You're stuck with the lot of us – and for that matter, so are you, Miss Layton," he added with a pointed look at the lovely blonde.

"Here, here!" Challenger affirmed stoutly.

Marguerite had begun to smile, one of the rare, full smiles that erased the shadows in her eyes.

Much gratified, Veronica grinned, too, and mischief lit her face. "Well then, you big strong men won't mind moving Marguerite's trunk from the storage room back to her bedroom so we can unpack it again, now will you?"

Accepting the challenge, Roxton rose and clapped Ned on the shoulder. "That's our cue, Neddy-boy. Let's show these women what a little elbow grease can accomplish!"

"I've been had!" Ned complained good-naturedly, laughing as he followed the taller man toward the stairs. "But I guess it's little enough to ask as price for admission to the family."

"And what am I supposed to do to earn my place in this family?" George joked, fondly eyeing the two women. "There must be some service I can render as well?"

"Well," Marguerite beamed at him, "I'm almost out of scented soap. I don't suppose you could whip up a batch?"

"Actually, I made some extra last week… er… in hopes that you might…" His ears reddened and he rubbed the back of his neck as he stumbled through admitting that he'd voluntarily wasted time on such an impractical project. Awkwardly he added, "I know; it was a sentimental notion, what with having no idea when you might return, but… Well, I'll just pop down to the lab and fetch some for you, shall I?" he surged enthusiastically to his feet, anxious to escape before he embarrassed himself any further.

The two women restrained themselves until he was out of sight before they practically fell into one another's arms, laughing so hard that they cried.

xxxxx

Dinner had been an elaborate affair: Malone cooked up one of his gourmet meals, Challenger produced a carefully hoarded final bottle of the champagne he'd brought along to celebrate the lost world he was positive they'd find, and Veronica unpacked her mother's china, silver, and finest white tablecloth for the occasion. Maria had cooperated by being in a quiet, contented mood as they sat down to eat.

The laughter and camaraderie they'd shared that afternoon while they worked together in Marguerite's boudoir had left everyone in a buoyant mood that overflowed into the evening. Roxton was the first to notice his lady's increasing quietness during dinner. It was his solicitous care of her that caused the others to look more closely at her. They, too, caught a glimpse of the tremor that was increasingly visible in her hands and the bluish tinge of her skin that hinted at her waning strength. They were reminded anew that returning to the tree house was far from effortless for their housemate, although she was doing a fair job of maintaining her calm so that she would not dampen everyone else's enjoyment of their first night back together.

John stayed at Marguerite's side, always within her reach as dusk crept over the plateau. More and more frequently as time passed, the others saw her look to him, a hint of panic in her gray-green eyes when the others were interacting with Maria nearby. Roxton would smile at her and touch her shoulder or her hand, and her tension would ease a little. Several times he spoke a soft word to her when she seemed to be withdrawing into her old defensive distance. Roxton was discreet, so the others never overheard him, but his words inevitably erased any pretence that she was untroubled, and yet seemed to soothe her agitation at the same time.

Marguerite's gaze was repeatedly drawn to the baby, despite how unsettling she found it to be near the infant; she guardedly watched Veronica, Ned and Challenger with the little girl. Roxton, who hadn't realized just how much he'd missed the baby, had nonetheless refrained from holding or playing with her since Ned retrieved her from her cradle after her nap. Following his lead, the others had taken care not to suggest that either he or the vulnerable brunette have anything to do with the child. Because she wasn't hiding her feelings this time, her friends soon found themselves wondering, like John, whether the skittish beauty would be able to stay. It wasn't that she disliked Maria, but there was no doubt that her feelings about the baby were raw.

Although she praised Ned's culinary artistry, she was so acutely conscious of the infant's presence during the celebratory meal that she couldn't manage to actually eat, just nudging the meat and vegetables around her plate - except for the forkfuls that John half-playfully fed to her, which all in itself showed the others just how much Roxton and Marguerite's relationship had changed.

The nobleman was proud of his lady's tenacious effort to play her role in the festive evening. It was a double strain for her to be in the same room with Maria and yet still interact 'normally' with the adults. He knew that she was doing it partially to prove to herself that she could, but he was fully aware that a she was also anxious to please everyone else.

To give her a break from Maria, John volunteered himself and Marguerite for kitchen duty. She rolled her eyes and voiced her traditional reluctance, but escaped to the kitchen with a stack of plates before he'd had time to rise from his chair. He exchanged concerned looks with the others as he hastily gathered the remaining plates and silver from the table and followed her.

Remembering their laughter over some of her stories as they'd performed this chore at the cavern, inspiration struck the nobleman. _If talking about Aimee worked there to help her relax, maybe it will help here, too. How can I use it to make Maria's presence a bit more natural for her? Maybe… a topic everyone with children has in common?_ He dumped his armload of dirty dishes into the washtub she was preparing and said casually, "It was interesting having the baby with us for dinner, wasn't it? I'm fairly sure my brother and I never dined with the family when we were still in the nursery. I do, however, have vague memories of the nanny dressing us up to take us down to the dining room for a few moments on special occasions. Without a nanny for Aimee, what did you do about meal times?"

Marguerite shrugged, accustomed by now to his randomly expressed curiosity about her past. "We kept her with us. Her cranky time of day was in the morning… like me," she smiled briefly up at him, and he chuckled. "But unlike her mother, she was very sweet-natured the remainder of the day."

That was a perfect lead-in for some light flirting, but he had a different goal in mind at the moment. He reached for a dish towel as he stayed with his chosen theme. "So you had Aimee at table with you? My mother would have gone prematurely gray if we'd done that. She always acted like she despaired of every teaching William and me proper table manners, even when we were out of short pants. She told all sorts of tales about the mishaps William and I had with food. But maybe little girls behave better than little boys, eh?"

As he'd hoped, this prompted fond memories for Marguerite. Her smile lasted a bit longer as she scrubbed the first plate clean. "Oh I don't think girls are any easier to train, John. Aimee certainly had her moments."

"Yeah? Such as?"

Before she knew quite how it had happened, everyone else was in the kitchen, too, laughing along with her and John at her recollections about the misadventures of training her daughter to feed herself. That naturally segued into swapping stories that had been told by their mothers about themselves or their siblings. John was pleased to see his lady's tension ease under the camaraderie. Marguerite didn't participate as much as the discussion shifted to stories about older children, but she listened attentively and often smiled, so John was satisfied with the turn of events.

When the dishes were done, basin emptied and counters cleared, the group drifted back to the main room and sprawled on various chairs and rugs. Ned plucked Maria from her play-crate and lay flat on his back on the floor, bouncing the laughing baby on his stomach. And Marguerite, to everyone's delight, offered tentatively, "Aimee used to love being bounced like that, and tossed into the air, as well." She, too, had noticed that talking about her daughter appeared to ease her reactions to Maria, as well as to smooth conversational flow with the others.

"I'll bet you knew better than to bounce her right after a meal, though, didn't you?" Veronica asked with a quick grin, blue eyes brimming with mirth.

"Oh, the mess!" Ned groaned, and cast a baleful glare in the ginger-haired scientist's direction.

Catching on immediately, the brunette crowed, "Oh George! You didn't!"

He grimaced good-naturedly. "I did."

"And then he wanted to make her vomit again so he could develop some kind of theory about the range a kid can spew its guts," Ned grunted in disgust.

Marguerite and Roxton couldn't help but laugh as George defended himself by explaining that he'd only wanted to study whether Maria's rather spectacular trajectory had been a one-time occurrence, or whether it was a consistent phenomenon. "How far did she – er – spew?" Roxton inquired from his place on the floor at his lady's feet, leaning against her knees.

"Watch out," Veronica warned. "He measured it, and he can tell you to the hundredth of an inch!"

"Indeed I can! I'm quite sure that the distance is remarkable!" the scientist marveled, eyes gleaming in mingled pride in Maria's accomplishment and excitement at his developing hypothesis. "Although I can't confirm that, because Malone and Veronica have refused to allow me to duplicate the conditions. I doubt that anyone has ever done a study on this topic, and I believe we could relieve the concerns of many parents by publishing the facts."

"What concerns?" Marguerite asked, grinning at his mystified reference to her friends' resistance to his 'duplicating the conditions'.

He nodded earnestly. "The volume and distance involved was really quite astounding! Now if we could gather statistics from the Zanga parents, and attain a further sampling or two of data from Maria here, we could calculate the averages and publish the facts. Think of the unnecessary panic it would avoid if it were common knowledge that a baby can heave the contents of its stomach upwards of twelve feet across the room without harming itself! I believe such details would prove to be a great relief to mothers all over the world! Why, Veronica was positive that Maria was seriously ill, possibly even fatally so. This research, if it develops as I believe it might, could alleviate such fears."

Veronica, blushing, hastened to point out that Ned and George had been just as worried as she'd been by Maria's expulsion of more material than any of them had realized her little tummy could hold.

"I know just what you mean…" Marguerite nodded, and they were off on another exchange of humorous stories, this time about their mutual experiences with childhood maladies.

Roxton was satisfied with the more relaxed interaction, thankful that he'd thought to prompt his lady's pleasanter memories of her daughter. It was easier for her to be with Maria when her mind was full of these positive remembrances instead of dwelling about Aimee's death. As he'd hoped, the other three adults had noticed the benefits of such reminiscing and wholeheartedly participated. He suspected even Marguerite had realized his gambit and was gamely using the tactic herself. Her frequent chuckles and occasional contributions to the conversation were a more than adequate reward for his strategy.

Maria gurgled contentedly as she was handed off by Malone to Challenger, and then to Veronica, and back to Malone again while they passed the time together. Roxton watched, marveling at how much the sprite had developed in the relatively short time he'd been gone. He badly wanted to cuddle and play with her, but he stayed with his lady and made no attempt to seize a turn with the infant; he wanted to ensure that Marguerite never again doubted whether she held first place in his heart. His dedication was rewarded when the baby's bedtime arrived and Marguerite squeezed his shoulder. He looked up at her.

"You should tuck her in, John," she suggested quietly. "You haven't even held her yet." She'd noticed the look in his dark green eyes as he watched the others with Maria, and she knew why he hadn't done more than look despite his fondness for the baby. _If we're going to stay here, he has to be able to interact with her, whether I can or not. And he's missed her so… He adores her, like I loved Aimee. _

He should've known she'd notice his angst. With an apologetic wince, he answered, "I'm quite content to sit right here with you."

"I know. But please do it anyway."

She didn't want him to miss out for her sake, he realized, and he reluctantly nodded, not at all sure he should leave her alone, but wanting to honor Marguerite's effort.

Veronica handed him the baby bottle, and Ned passed Maria over to him. He unfolded himself from the floor and hesitated, the infant fussing a little in the curve of his arm. He looked down at the brunette with a concerned frown, and when she summoned a smile and nodded, he glanced at their three friends. "I'll be back," he said. He left unspoken the command that they care for his lady while he was downstairs.

"Are you all right?" George asked her as soon as the lanky hunter disappeared down the stairs.

"I'm fine, George." _He looked so right holding her. If he'd been with me when I had Aimee, she'd never have died. Why couldn't she have had a father like John instead of -_

"You don't look fine," Veronica said bluntly, dropping to her knees in Roxton's spot and taking her friends' cold hands to rub them. "I can't imagine losing Maria, and she's not even really mine. I don't know how I'd handle it if I were in your place, Marguerite. If it gets to be too much for you tomorrow, please say something. One of us can always take her to a different room for a while, or down to the compound, and maybe that would help."

Stunned by this unexpected and supportive suggestion, the older woman nodded. "I-I'll remember. Thank you." _With this kind of help, it may not be as hard to stay here as I expected!_

The blond American scooted a little closer across the plank floor, too. "And if you want to talk about your daughter, we'd love to hear about her. I give you my word that I won't write it down in any of my journals," he added seriously. When the others laughed, he grinned sheepishly. "What? There are lots of things I don't write in my journals."

The others hooted in kindly derision and teased him that there was very little he didn't record.

"Well, I won't record this," he vowed, red-faced. "Scout's honor."

"I appreciate the sacrifice," Marguerite grinned.

He grinned back, relieved, then sobered and said softly, "I may not know exactly what you've gone through, Marguerite, but I do know people handle such grief in very different ways. I don't think any one way is always right. My mother had two stillbirths between me and my younger sister, and I had an older brother I never knew because he died of influenza before I was born. My father dealt with his grief by not talking about it, but Mother said that for her, it helped to talk."

Veronica looked up at her anxiously, gently squeezing the brunette's hands to get her attention. "Does it help when we talk about her like we've done tonight? It seemed to, but if you'd prefer us not to…?" It had appeared to make the situation easier, but she didn't want to take it for granted that Roxton was right about this, and end up accidentally causing her friend greater pain.

A little hesitantly, uneasy with the suddenly serious, intimate conversation without Roxton's reassuring presence, she glanced in the direction he'd gone before she answered, "Mostly it seems to help. Until John asked me about her, it had been far too long since I'd done anything but grieve at the thought of Aimee." _Goodness, they've never taken this much interest in anything else from my past! Can't they talk about anything else? Where is he? He's the one that insisted I needed to be more open with the others, not just with him, and look where it's gotten me – smack dab in the middle of an inquisition!_

"It's a lovely name," Veronica offered softly. "Were you able to keep any photographs of her?"

Marguerite shook her head, and her gaze drifted to the steps again, increasingly uneasy with the intensely private nature of the topic. "No."

Seeing by her abrupt answer and uneasy posture that she needed the subject changed, Ned scrambled to his feet. "Tea, anyone?" he asked brightly. "Veronica, want to give me a hand? Challenger, you should tell Marguerite about your new plan to increase the capacity for the shower's hot water."

Marguerite's eyes lit with relieved interest and she turned toward the scientist, hardly noticing as Veronica followed Ned. "Really? More hot water?"

The ginger-haired inventor leaned forward enthusiastically. "I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner. It's really quite simple…"

In the kitchen, the younger couple embraced. "Ned, she's hurting so much," Veronica murmured.

"I know. That's why I thought we'd better back off. It's just like handling an interview on any other touchy subject; it's almost always counterproductive to push too hard for answers, and I'd say that's especially true for Marguerite. Besides, Roxton will have our heads if we undo the progress he'd made with her." He looked over her shoulder to where the brunette now appeared to be wholly absorbed in Challenger's eager elaboration on his plans. "I asked you in here with me because I had an idea, but I wanted to run it past you before I said anything. You're such a good artist; I'll bet if Marguerite described Aimee to you, you could do a sketch of her daughter, like you did the sketches of Saros and your mother," the reporter whispered. "What do you think? Could you do it?"

Her fine brows lofted as she considered the idea. "Maybe. Let's check with Roxton before we say anything to her, though. And maybe I should go finish tucking Maria in for him so he can get back to her. She needs him."

"I don't think he'll be much longer. Let's just get the tea ready and play it by ear."

Ned was right. By the time the tea was ready, John was bounding up the steps. He joined them at the table, dropping into the seat beside Marguerite and beaming at everyone. "Tea? Perfect! Yes, she's sound asleep already. She dozed off halfway through her bottle." He accepted a cup for himself, and settled his arm across the brunette's shoulders again. "I think the combination of a bath and playtime after dinner wore her out. Now, pardon me for interrupting whatever you were talking about while I was downstairs, but I'd like a word with you about the lift," he said sternly.

Marguerite quietly sipped her own tea and listened as he scolded the others about allowing the elevator to be unsecured and unmonitored. Once he'd obtained their sheepish promise to do better, he turned the conversation to the schedule for the next day. He, Ned and George argued amicably over division of the chores, while Veronica tried in vain to convince the three men that the priority should be the irrigation system for her garden. Marguerite unintentionally ended the debate when she offered her opinion that they should allow Challenger to proceed with the important work of increasing the hot water capacity, which sent everyone into peals of laughter.

"What? I'm serious!" But she smiled, too.

Veronica remembered that she had some cookies set aside, and fetched them to add to their evening tea, hoping to prolong the pleasant visit they were sharing.

"Hey, where were you hiding these?" Ned demanded, reaching for a handful as soon as she set the plate down.

She slapped his hand and glared at him. "Mind your manners, Edward T. Malone!"

He accepted the rebuke in red-faced chagrin, muttering, "But they're my favorites."

Ignoring him, their hostess gestured toward the sweets with a smile at the dark-haired couple. "You two can choose first. Ned will be glad to wait, won't you, Ned?" She treated Ned to another glare.

Chuckling at John and Marguerite's confusion, Challenger explained, "Malone here managed to single-handedly consume several dozen of these cookies a couple days ago before they had even cooled off, while Veronica was collecting dried laundry from the line down in the compound."

"Ah, that explains it," Roxton laughed. He selected two cookies for himself and one for Marguerite, then passed the plate to Challenger. "Neddy-boy, you shouldn't have been so greedy."

"I agree," the jungle beauty said sternly. "Baking takes a lot of time and effort, and I expected those cookies to last at least a week, not a single day!"

They continued their banter as they munched on the cookies and had another cup of tea, reluctant to break up for the night. But as darkness fell over the plateau, John could feel Marguerite shivering under his arm, chilled by exhaustion but valiantly trying to stick it out. Although he knew the former heiress was reluctant to end this period of reconciliation with her family, he decided it was time to call it a night.

So he stretched lazily and suggested to the others, "I'm ready for bed, how about all of you?"

They took the not-so-subtle hint, and, after giving Marguerite another hearty round of welcome-homes, they left the two alone at the table. The brunette closed her eyes and leaned into him with a tremulous sigh, too tired to move and thankful for the extra moments with him.

Roxton held her and hummed one of her favorite tunes, his cheek resting atop her dark curls. _She's going to need to be with me tonight. How are we going to manage that? _When they'd rolled off his bed in the cavern this morning, she'd wistfully remarked that she was going to miss these nights with him when they were back home; he had accepted her words without question. He knew that if they made it all the way to the tree house – which he'd still doubted – they would be returning to the same situation they'd been in since they'd escaped from the cave-in.

Back then, before he'd realized she needed more time to come to terms with having admitted her love for him and then lived instead of dying, he'd tried to persuade her that there was no reason for them to occupy separate bedrooms. He'd assured her that their friends wouldn't hold them to the same moral code that existed beyond the plateau.

"Maybe. Maybe not," she had demurred. "John, you're a man, and when you… indulge… no one blinks. But I've been on the receiving end of the disdain of others for the choices I've made in the past, and I… I don't want to taint what we've shared," she'd confided hesitantly, red-faced and barely able to meet his surprised gaze for longer than a fleeting second.

"You don't regret what we did, do you?" he'd asked with dread.

"No! No, of course not. But…"

Another instant was all it took for him to figure out that she was worried about angering him with her renewed reservations about their future. "It was easier to say you loved me, and to make love with me, when it seemed like we'd never have to face your past, wasn't it?"

She'd nodded miserably without looking up. "I'm sorry, John," she'd whispered. "I told you that you deserve better than me."

He'd tucked two fingers beneath her chin and waited until she'd finally met his gaze. "And I told you that you deserve better than you allow yourself. It's all right, Marguerite. I won't press you about sharing a room with me. I promise you that no one will have any cause to cast aspersions on our love, or to disparage what we've shared. We'll wait until the time is right to be intimate again, whenever you're ready. But I'm going to court you, Marguerite Krux, and I'm going to convince you that we have a future together. I'm not going to hide the fact that I love you, and I hope you won't pretend anymore that you don't love me."

The awed amazement that had shone from her adoring face had been more than worth his vow of restraint, and she'd honored his request that she permit the others to witness her love for him – not that everyone hadn't already known about it, but still, he'd been as proud as a peacock of their openly blossoming relationship.

_Too proud, perhaps,_ he pondered as he recalled again the reason for their current situation_. If I hadn't been so cocksure of myself and so insensitive to her, it might not have come to the point that she felt she had no choice but to leave us. Despite all my promises and confident words, I messed up badly and almost lost her. Thank God the whole situation ended up bringing us closer together, at least up to this point._ He had a much better grasp now on why she craved the approval and acceptance of this family, and why she didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize their respect for her. Before he'd seen that wall of hers, he'd occasionally wondered if this was merely a way she might be testing him, even teasing him. But now he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was a very real conflict that had to be resolved before she could give herself to him again; she had to be convinced that her past wasn't going to turn him away or hurt him.

Roxton knew she'd come much closer to believing that over these past weeks he'd spent with her. _And after all, it isn't as if she doesn't want me as badly as I want her. I had proof of that in the cavern, but I can't push her about sharing a room now that we're back at the tree house. It's more important than ever to keep my word and wait until she's at peace with it; this situation with Maria is more than enough for her to deal with for the time being. Until she tells me she's ready, I'm going to do and be whatever she needs. The only question here is, now that we're back at the tree house, how can I do it without exposing her to the very situation she fears… or perhaps it's time for her to see that the others won't judge her for being with me. It has to be her decision for me to join her, though. And knowing Marguerite, she'll undoubtedly try to tough it out alone. _

The crackle of a larger bit of wood settling lower on the burned remnant beneath it in the fireplace caught Roxton's attention. He realized that the muffled sounds from below them had ceased; everyone had gone to bed. Marguerite was still snuggled to his side, genuinely relaxed now that there was no one else in sight, and more than half asleep on his shoulder.

"It's definitely past time we were abed," he said reluctantly, wishing he didn't have to make her face another challenge on top of what she'd already gone through today, but knowing it had to be done.

Marguerite nodded with an equal lack of enthusiasm, and sat up properly.

He rose to his feet, bowed low before her and offered his hand with a charming smile. "May I walk you to your door, milady?"

Marguerite's answering smile was forced, but she accepted his tension-reducing game. "You may, Lord Roxton. Thank you for your courteous offer." She allowed him to assist her to her feet, and leaned fondly on his arm as he escorted her down to her restored room. In the doorway she turned to him. "John . . .?" She tilted her face upward, invitation and need evident in her expression.

He drew her into his arms and lowered his mouth to cover hers with passionate lingering kisses that took away her breath and left her yearning for more. He was equally intoxicated; when she melded herself to him with a murmured mewl of desire, it startled him into realizing they'd gone too far. _Blast! I didn't intend that! I didn't take today's stress into account; we're both more susceptible than usual._ It was a severe test of his self-discipline to restrain himself from acting on her unguarded responsiveness, but he managed, barely, to tamp down his own desire. Then he set himself to ease her back from the edge without stoking either his own passion or hers. When he finally felt her urgency dissipate, he pulled his head up and dragged in an exaggerated breath. "Air!"

She giggled and opened her eyes to stare up at him, still a little bemused.

"We could continue this," he teased with a raised brow, a smirk, and a jerk of his head toward her bed, very much at odds with his earlier courtly façade as he'd brought her to her boudoir.

"Fat chance!" she retorted mildly, the automatic response of their old games.

He released her with an overly-heavy sigh, assumed a hangdog expression that was belied by his twinkling eyes, and moaned, "I'm devastated!" He flung a hand across his brow and turned toward his own room.

But despite the fact that he was once again utilizing humor to make it easier for them to separate for the night, when it came right down to his leaving her alone, Marguerite refused to release his hand. He instantly stepped back to her side and looked down at her with a quirked brow. "Milady?"

Somberly she said, "John, I want you."

One glance was enough to see the panic in her silvery eyes, her need to be near him outweighing her dread of facing her housemates' disapproval. _That's not an invitation to her bed. She's exhausted, but she won't be able to sleep without me, at least not tonight_._ Those bloody nightmares of hers will be back in full force if she's alone._ He ruefully reined in his still-raging hormones and resigned himself to yet another night of being her protector. _Oh well, faint heart never won fair lady._ He bowed low once again and grinned up at her from his subservient position. "Your wish is my command, milady."

_He makes me feel like being together is a charming fairytale, instead of something to dread anyone else discovering._ And indeed, once she was lying in John's arms, nestled close and hearing his steady heartbeat beneath her ear, all her tension drained off. _He didn't come in here expecting me to finish what we started. He's keeping his promise. Oh, how I love this man!_ Curled safely into his strong body, her fears assuaged by his presence, the exhaustion she'd been fighting off all night suddenly overwhelmed her. But it seemed very important to let him know what his act of nobility meant to her.

Eyes already closed, she battled the lure of slumber as she murmured softly, "No one's ever held me without wanting something for himself before, John, and you've done it over and over again. I've never known… a truly chivalrous man before you. I don't think I can ever… properly express… how very much I appreciate this. You're… my… hero…" Her voice trailed off, she sighed and was asleep.

"My pleasure, darling, my pleasure," he softly assured her, thankful anew that he'd determined to hold off more intimacy until the time was undeniably right. He smiled in satisfaction, relishing her renewed affirmation that she considered him to be her hero. It was a definite coup in his effort to prove himself to her. _In for a penny, in for a pound… Besides, she's well worth any amount of waiting._

xxxxx

"John . . ."

He opened his eyes and found his lady lying on her side, propped on one elbow, looking down at him in the flickering light of a candle on her bedside table. "Marguerite," he responded, voice gruff from sleep, and reached over to caress her cheek, searching for any sign of fear or sadness. She didn't look troubled. "What is it, my love?"

She smiled sweetly. "Good morning."

He squinted over her shoulder through the window where a vague hint of light was just becoming visible through the darkness of night, and quirked a brow at her. "You woke me at the crack of dawn to say good morning?"

"John, nobody hates me," she whispered with a little catch to her voice. "Everybody likes me."

There was a childlike delight in her blue-green eyes that he saw all too rarely. Wryly he said, "Sounds familiar. Didn't I tell you the same thing just yesterday?"

"Well, yes, you did, and you told the same thing more than once before that, too," she admitted, and added candidly, "But now I believe you."

That startled him into a bark of laughter, which he quickly stifled when she smacked his shoulder.

"I'm serious, John!" she scolded mildly.

"Of course you are. I'm sorry, Marguerite," he meekly apologized. Maintaining a straight face, he asked, "Might one inquire who or what convinced you to believe me?"

"It was a dream," she said, her frown fading back into the earlier expression of glee. "Not the kind I've been having since we found the baby," she added quickly to soothe his instant concern. "It was the kind where I see something that's about to come true."

That didn't exactly comfort him. She'd only mentioned this ability of dreaming the future once or twice in all the time he'd known her; it bothered her as least as much as her inexplicable linguistic ability, but it was easier to conceal since she could shrug it off as mere 'intuition' if her preemptive actions to avoid a problem were noticed. "You mean like when Ned and I were away and that witch tried to electrocute Challenger, but you were able to warn him in time after you dreamed about it?" he asked alertly, to confirm that he'd understood her correctly.

"Yes," she nodded, pleased that his example was favorable.

When he'd discussed the incident with George later, the scientist had suggested that Marguerite's 'precognitive dreams' – Challenger's phrase – were related to her sensitivity to the spirit world – although George had called it an 'alternate plane of reality that science will no doubt one day be able to explain'. Unfortunately, every encounter they'd had with the spirit world on the Plateau had been fraught with danger. Roxton's tension increased. "That kind of dream usually portends something perilous doesn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. But once in a while…" Her smile widened.

"Ah…This one was a good dream, was it?" His unease faded with the realization.

She nodded and dropped a feather-light kiss on his cheek. "Very good. Know what else?"

_She's enthralling when she's so happy_, he decided as he feasted his eyes on her glowing features. "No, what else?" he drawled indulgently, now that he didn't need to worry about imminent trouble.

"I love you."

He forgot to breathe for a long moment, staring at her.

She'd said it the first time only to please him because she'd thought they were going to die trapped in that cave. Then more recently, in her hidden caverns, she'd said it several times because she'd been desperate to reassure him that she wouldn't leave without him. But this time she'd said she loved him for no reason at all.

Her smile was ear to ear, bright and confident, her eyes brimming with adoration of the handsome hunter beside her. Impossibly, her smile widened as he gazed up at her. "What's this?" she teased, "Lord John Richard Roxton, silver-tongued speaker in the House of Lords and infamous ladies' man – speechless over three little words?" She lifted her hand from his chest to rest her palm tenderly on his bristly cheek. "You have such extreme reactions to those three words that I'm not sure I should say them any more. Breathe, John," she recommended in amusement, her laughter gurgling up as he finally drew a breath.

He captured her hand when she would have moved it away from his face, and held it there. "No, stay; I like it," he rumbled, then cleared his throat. "Well… It must have been some dream!"

"It was. I mean, it didn't seem like it started out that way. I was horrid," she made a face, scrunching up her nose and grimacing. "You know, like back when we first met, all hard edges and sharp words. But then the oddest thing happened!" Marveling, she smiled broadly again, as if she couldn't help but beam at him. "Veronica said she couldn't pick who her sister was any more than she could pick who her parents were, but that if she could have chosen, she would've wanted it to be me. Imagine! Me, of all people! I mean, Assai I could see her choosing as a sister, but me?" She shook her head in wonder. "And while I'm sure George would say that the only reason I saw Ned's parents and sister in my dream was because I once glimpsed a photo Ned keeps in one of his journals, how could George possibly explain that Ned asked his family to legally adopt me so I'd have a real name of my own – and they did! The poor boy really did end up with me as his sister! And George," she leaned forward and whispered excitedly, "George asked me to be his partner writing up his papers about the Plateau! He said he could trust me not to let him embarrass himself by exaggerating too much or by getting details wrong. Imagine George trusting _me _with the most important work of his life!" Her eyes were wide and filled with newly discovered wonders. "All that would have been incredible enough, don't you think? But none of that was the best. You know what was best of all?"

"What?" he asked indulgently, fascinated that a dream filled with such a mix of improbability and wishful fancy had convinced her of her genuine acceptance by their friends, when reality had failed to assure her of her place among them.

She drew in a quick, excited breath. "You, John. _You _were best of all. No matter what I did or said, no matter how nasty I was to you, you wouldn't turn your back on me. You just kept holding me and telling me that our future was going to be good. You believed in me. And you weren't after my money, or my singing, or my ability to steal anything, or using my connections to someone else, or even for sex! Well, okay," she amended with an impish grin, "So maybe you wanted my body."

John chuckled. "Had me worried for a second," he teased. "Did I get your body?"

Her smile dimpled. "Apparently so. John, we had a family of our own in my dream!" she sighed happily, and snuggled down on his chest again, nestling her face into the crook of his neck. "They're beautiful and healthy and safe – both of our children are _safe_, John! They have a father and mother that love them and love each other, and even though I didn't think I could be a good mother, you made it so I could be, because I wasn't alone anymore. _Two_ children, John. Two – a little boy and a little girl!"

He blinked, a trifle taken aback to go from barely having Marguerite to suddenly having two children as well. "Er – sounds delightful."

Marguerite grinned indulgently as his bemusement. "Isn't it wonderful? I don't have just one family – I have two, John! One family you and I made together, and one family that actually had a choice and chose me anyway! I never thought a life this nice could belong to someone like me. Could this day get any better?"

He hugged her gently, touched by her euphoria. "You know," he offered cautiously, "Having a family or two doesn't make life perfect, Marguerite."

"I know. But I never wanted perfect. I just wanted something to belong to and be part of, something to make life worth living. I'd never have known I was looking in all the wrong places if you hadn't decided there was something in me that you liked. I wouldn't have had anything at all without you, John. I never would have made it. I love you, John Richard Roxton. I love you," she declared firmly, her face burrowed into the crook of his neck as she hugged him back. "I wish I could tell the whole world how much I love you!"

"Then marry me, Marguerite."

She stilled abruptly, and then lifted her head slowly to look into his eyes. "What did you say?" she breathed.

John, knowing this morning was something that had to be perfect in her memory forever, slid off the bed. He extended his hand to help her sit up, so she could face him as he knelt on bended knee on the floor in front of her, and then kept her hand in his. She stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

"Marguerite Krux Malone," at his solemn use of her dream name she blinked, then smiled tremulously. "Will you please do me the very great honor of accepting my hand in marriage, of becoming my wife, the woman to whom I pledge my undying love and devotion for the rest of our days? Will you be my partner and my friend, my lover and the mother of my children?"

He removed his signet ring and slipped it onto her left hand, ring finger, then smiled up at her misty-eyed disbelief. "Please marry me, Marguerite, and make me the luckiest man in the world." He leaned forward and kissed her tenderly before he concluded huskily, "I love you more than life itself."

Tears shimmered in her now-sapphire eyes. _This can't be happening!_ "Marriage, John?" she gasped. "Are you insane?"

He kissed the palm of her hand, which he had not released. "I'm perfectly sane, Marguerite. You've admitted in the past that I'm right for you. I believe we were meant to be together." He was repeating what he'd said before, but this was the right time for the final step, he was sure of it.

Marguerite was thinking the same thing. _This time I can believe him. He's not just my knight; he's my fairytale prince in real life! There are no more secrets, nothing that might shake his devotion or make him turn away from me – and didn't I just dream of our future? The impossible just might be possible after all! _She stared from the ring on her finger to the handsome man kneeling before her with his dark green eyes full of adoration – _John loves me!_ – and whispered, "Do you think George being the leader of this expedition qualifies him the same as a ship's captain, so he could marry us?"

She was swept off the bed and into his embrace as he whooped with joy. He hugged her, kissed her, and tickled her, all the while hooting with delight as her eyes danced back at him and her own laughter rang out freely. _Now she's right; this day couldn't possibly get any better!_

The curtain over the bedroom doorway was torn off and the others burst through, alarmed at the racket, each armed and ready to repel attackers. They skidded to a halt as they saw the couple tangled on the floor, still clad in the same clothes they'd worn when they'd stepped off the elevator yesterday.

"Well," Challenger grinned, straightening from his defensive posture and lowering the handgun he'd snatched up when Roxton and Marguerite's ruckus had awakened him from a sound sleep. "What's all this, then?"

Lord John Roxton, peer of the Realm, looked up from his sprawled position half-pinning Marguerite and grinned widely. "George! Want to perform a wedding?" His gaze moved to Ned Malone, who was bare-chested and sleep-rumpled but also armed with his hastily-snatched pistol. "You'll have to double as best man and brother of the bride, Neddy-boy. Oh, and you'll have to give Marguerite away, too. And Veronica," he tactfully ignored the fact that she was wrapped only in a bed sheet, "We'll need you to be Marguerite's maid of honor. She said YES!" he ended with a gleeful, boyish shout.

Marguerite couldn't resist refuting this. "Technically, I did _not_ say yes," she pointed out with as much dignity as she could muster from flat on her back on the floor with her body inelegantly tangled with Roxton's. "I only asked if George was qualified to perform a wedding."

But since the brunette was aglow with her own happiness, they all knew she wasn't about to refuse the handsome hunter. The others were nearly as pleased with this development as John and Marguerite.

"I'd be honored to give the bride away," Ned knelt down and reached around John to give her a bear hug. "As long as I get to kiss my big sister, too."

"We can use one of my mother's dresses to make a wedding gown, Marguerite," Veronica offered enthusiastically, deftly tucking her knives into folds of the sheet she'd so hastily wrapped around herself when she'd leapt from bed. "And I'll bake you the most incredible wedding cake you've ever imagined!"

"This is marvelous news!" the red-haired scientist beamed from ear to ear, pleased that they wanted him to preside over their wedding. "I'm very proud of both of you, and I'd be honored to officiate!"

Just then, Maria wailed in her room down the hall.

Challenger, Ned, and Veronica froze. John's arms tightened protectively around his lady as he anxiously met her startled gaze. "Guess we woke her up," he said apologetically.

"I'll go settle her down," Veronica said quickly, turning.

"Wait." Marguerite struggled free of her fiancé's arms and untangled herself from his long limbs. Their friends worriedly watched them rise to their feet as Maria continued to cry for attention. John was ready to embrace her again if she needed his support, hovering at her side, but Marguerite only asked softly, looking at Veronica, "May I get her?"

Veronica blinked in astonishment but quickly recovered and nodded. "Sure. Of course!"

The brunette straightened her shoulders and marched purposefully from her bedroom.

John took two steps after her, then stopped, gaze fastened on the open doorway. Veronica reached blindly for Ned's arm. He stuffed his pistol into the waistband of his trousers and patted her hand absently as he stared at the doorway through which Marguerite had disappeared. Challenger scratched anxiously at his beard and glanced from the doorway to Roxton. The hunter stood stock still half way to the door with his head tilted to one side, listening intently. He held his breath, sending up a silent prayer, unaware that the others were doing the same thing.

Maria's crying stopped.

Almost at once they could hear Marguerite cooing gently to the baby. A few moments later, the dark-haired beauty strolled back into her bedroom, Maria securely in her arms. "Veronica, where are you keeping the diapers? Maria needs to be changed."

They exchanged surprised, pleased looks.

"What?" Marguerite asked, puzzled by their reaction to a simple question.

"That's the first time you've ever called her by her name," John pointed out, taking a step that put him beside her. "Are you sure you're okay with her?"

Marguerite's eyes softened lovingly at his concern. "Yes, John. I'm okay with her. I suppose I'll still have moments when being around her brings back unwelcome memories. But I think being with her now may also bring back some of the nicer memories, the ones you all helped me to remember about my daughter. It helps…" she faltered for a moment, and her smile wavered as she swallowed back a sudden lump in her throat as she glanced around at her makeshift family. "It helps to know that none of you will hold it against me if I should happen to burst into tears and run for the hills. Not that I'm planning to turn into a watering pot," she added firmly to quell the sudden alarm her words provoked in all four of her friends. "Unless, of course, no one will tell me where the diapers are kept. She's more than a little ripe. I could give her to one of you if you'd prefer?" she offered with a hint of mischief in her tone.

"No, no!" It was magical how quickly both Challenger and Malone vanished from her bedroom.

Veronica _tsk'_d, shaking her head as she gathered her trailing sheet-wrap with one hand. "You see what I've been putting up with around here? I'm so glad there'll be another woman around again! You go right ahead and look after her, Marguerite. Diapers are in the wash room," the blonde laughed over her shoulder as she passed through the doorway. "Welcome home!"

John and Marguerite exchanged amused looks, and she quipped, "You're lucky you didn't bail out on me, too, husband-to-be."

"Ah, well, my dear," he sighed. "It's a heavy burden, but for better or worse, we're in this together. I'll be glad to lend you a hand – or at least to keep you company."

He picked up the candle, although it wouldn't be needed for much longer, and they walked side by side down the hall to the wash room. When Maria gurgled and pulled Marguerite's hair, John gently pried the tiny fist away from his lady's thick tresses. "After we change the baby, I'll start a pot of coffee for you," he offered.

She nodded with a smile of appreciation. "Thank you, John."

He leaned on the cabinet Challenger and Ned had built to hold the water basin, now serving as a changing station, and marveled as he watched her lay Maria down to change her diaper. _There's such an air of peacefulness about her!_ _At least for the moment, she's enjoying Maria._

She found the diapers inside the cabinet, and went to work. When the baby seemed ready to fuss, the lovely brunette began to hum softly, then to sing an old lullaby to the little girl.

His brows shot up. _That's not the voice we've been suffering through for the last four years!_ He straightened up, realizing in fascination that she had the voice of an angel! _Am I going nuts? Has her acceptance of my proposal addled my hearing?_

Ned appeared in the washroom doorway, a curious look on his face that turned to one of stunned amazement – and questions, of course – as he realized that the lilting voice was Marguerite's.

Veronica, now clothed in her usual soft deerskin gear, was only a step behind him, with a similarly confused and stunned expression on her lovely face as she stood there and listened to Marguerite singing so sweetly to Maria.

Another melodic chorus later, even George Challenger had been drawn from his lab to stare at the beautiful vocalist in stunned appreciation. He finally tore his eyes from Marguerite to arch a brow at Roxton. The hunter could only shrug and shake his head in bemused awe.

Marguerite finished changing Maria and scooped her up, turning from the changing station toward the doorway. She stopped singing in mid-phrase as she saw all four of the other adults crowded into the wash room, staring at her.

She blushed, instantly realizing the source of their incredulous expressions. _Oops! That's what I get for not thinking about what I'm doing! I'm in for it now! _With a rueful grimace she ventured, "Um… I suppose an explanation is in order?"

"I think so, my love," John agreed smoothly.

Marguerite shifted the baby to her hip, once again flipping her hair out of Maria's grasp. "Well, you see, I was just singing to myself not long after we were stranded here on the plateau, improvising some harmony aloud to the melody in my head, and I glanced up and saw Ned and Veronica exchange this look…"

Ned and Veronica glanced at each other; both remembered that day they'd come up from the garden to find Marguerite warbling a vaguely familiar tune. They'd cringed, thinking the lovely heiress couldn't hold a tune, half amused and half pitying at the poor vocal efforts of the haughty woman. It had never occurred to either of them that she could be harmonizing the melody, not merely mangling it.

"And at that moment," Marguerite continued sheepishly, "it amused me to let them think that I couldn't sing worth beans. When I realized they'd told everyone else, it kind of became my own personal running joke on all of you, watching you try to endure my singing. I guess I should apologize."

John grimaced. "You _guess_? Do you know what we went through trying not to offend you about your singing?" he asked her sternly.

She grinned irrepressibly. "Actually, yes, I do. That was the whole point, wasn't it?"

Her self-satisfaction left them all agape.

"Marguerite - !"

Her smile widened. "What? A girl has to have _some_ fun, you know!"

Challenger scowled at her. "If we had been back in London, you would've been arrested for disturbing the peace!"

"What are you so upset about? You all had plenty of fun making jokes with one another about my supposed inability to sing, didn't you?" she retorted knowingly as she pushed through her annoyed housemates to take the baby upstairs. As the others followed she continued over her shoulder, "I heard some of those jokes, and I saw the looks you gave one another when you thought I wouldn't see! Not to mention all the comments you eventually made right to my face! Each of you had a lot of fun at my expense over these last few years, just like I was having at yours. The only difference is that I knew the truth, and you didn't."

John trailed behind everyone else, watching the other three following his fiancé up the stairs. The trio scolded the unrepentant Marguerite as they went, indignant that she had subjected them to such an audacious prank for four long years. He shook his head as she insisted that it had been just as fair for her to keep her genuine voice a secret as it had been for them to conspire to mock her falsified singing voice all this time. Anyway, she argued, hadn't she just apologized? She didn't hear any of them apologizing to her for their assumptions about her voice, now did she?

The hunter chuckled to himself. _Marguerite might be "reformed", but there's plenty of feistiness left in my beautiful lady love. For better or worse indeed. I have a feeling we're going to have a very interesting life! _

"Roxton, don't forget you promised to start the coffee," she called back to him.

"Coming, Marguerite," he answered, and, as usual, he followed her.


End file.
